


The Calming Effects Of Tea

by flawedamythyst



Series: What Makes Us Rich [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agreeing on a compromise is one thing, living with it is quite another.</p><p>Betaed by Veronamay and Ladyofthelog. French by Sapphic85.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calming Effects Of Tea

John's head was heavy on Sherlock's shoulder and his breath was huffing out against Sherlock's neck in a damp, ticklish manner that would have irritated him if it had been anyone else. Sherlock had been lying awake all night, staring at the ceiling and running through all the data he'd collected on their current case while John slept. He'd finally connected all the clues and worked out who the murderer must be about fifteen minutes ago, but if he just waited another thirty he'd be able to kiss John awake without being grumbled at about the early hour, and there was almost nothing better than the little humming noise John made in the back of his throat when he was still half-asleep and feeling affectionate.

Sherlock had, despite his initial misgivings about changing his behaviour just to suit someone else, managed to adapt rather well to little compromises like waiting until what John deemed an acceptable hour before waking him. It did help that he'd observed that making them often resulted in an even better result than if Sherlock had kept to his usual behaviour – a grumpy, sleep-deprived John was no fun, for example. Well, not once Sherlock had memorised the exact way his forehead creased when he was having difficulty thinking around the solid block of _want to still be sleeping_ , anyway.

The very fact that he was lying in bed while there was a case on had started as a compromise, one designed to smooth away the concern John exhibited when Sherlock spent a whole night lying on the sofa thinking, only moving to apply another nicotine patch when he felt his brain slowing down. Going to lie in John's bed with him had been an attempt to seduce John into thinking that he would sleep (he never did, not when there was a case to think about, but there was no need for John know that), but it had had unexpected beneficial effects. Lying with John curled up next to him was far preferable to lying alone on the sofa downstairs, and for some reason left him feeling far more rested the next day, despite the fact that he had exactly the same lack of sleep in both cases.

The only detrimental effect was that his mind occasionally wandered away from the problem he was working on and into a contemplation of John's sleeping form, particularly when John made the whuffling half-snore that preceded a change in position. Sherlock calculated that he would have solved his current case approximately twenty-seven minutes faster without the distraction, but as no further action could be taken until a time of day when the suspect wouldn't be suspicious of callers, the extra time taken didn't really matter. Besides, he'd been able to procure valuable additional data on John's sleeping habits. There could never be enough data about John recorded in Sherlock's brain.

John made a faint, snuffling sound and the hand that was draped over Sherlock's chest shifted, tightening and then releasing. Sherlock waited hopefully for a couple of seconds in case John was waking earlier than he usually did but he calmed again after a moment, still buried deeply in sleep.

Sherlock glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes until he could wake John, ten minutes of lying together in bed, another half an hour for them to shower and dress, then they could head out to complete the investigation. With luck, they'd be able to clear this whole thing up within two hours, which would leave the rest of the day free for John to admire his genius at solving it so quickly while Scotland Yard were still stumped.

John shifted again, turning slightly so that his cock was pressed against Sherlock's hip, only the thin material of their underwear separating them. He was hard and he had been for a while, although Sherlock had been steadfastly ignoring it, and it was with a sense of resignation that Sherlock felt John's hips rock against his leg, seeking out the friction in his sleep. Sherlock let out a soft breath, hoping that it wasn't the precursor he suspected it was. John made another quiet noise, fingers grabbing at Sherlock's skin, and did it again, thrusting with more force this time. He must be having one of _those_ dreams.

Sherlock felt disappointment roll through him, but pushed it aside as he gently started to pull himself away from John, reluctantly abandoning his plan in favour of moving away from the unwanted sexual activity. John clung on in his sleep, pushing his cock against Sherlock again, but Sherlock was able to prise his way out from underneath him without waking him with all the skill of experience. Once Sherlock was out of the bed, John turned over onto his stomach in order to thrust down against the mattress instead and Sherlock watched for a few moments, caught by the change in John's breathing and the odd, clumsy rhythm of his movements.

John was very secretive about this side of himself, hiding himself away whenever he masturbated and changing the subject if Sherlock tried to bring it up. Sherlock couldn't decide if that meant he was ashamed - which, really, would be ridiculous, why on earth would John be ashamed of something that the vast majority of people engaged in? - or if he just thought that Sherlock would be more comfortable if it was all hidden away.

Asking about it just made him angry, although it was an anger directed more at himself, or at the situation in general than at Sherlock, not that that really helped Sherlock know how to deal with it. He often found himself overwhelmed by just how little he knew about conducting a relationship such as this – taking into account another person's feelings and responses to a given situation. It seemed that however well he knew John, he was still unable to predict his emotional reactions with any real accuracy. How was he meant to know what was going too far? Other people he'd known had got upset over the most petty details, and some of them had refused to associate with him over whatever it was. How was he meant to know what John's breaking point would be? Much better just to play it safe for now and gather as much data as he could before deciding how to resolve this.

He left John to it and went to shower and dress. He'd just have to wait until John was properly awake before he kissed him.

 

****

 

John was awake when Sherlock went back into his bedroom, sitting up with the confused frown on his face that meant he still wasn't properly with it.

Sherlock paused in the doorway. “It was the Rabbi,” he announced, pretending not to notice the wet spot on the sheets. John would change them before Sherlock was expected to lie on them again. “I shall need you to distract him while I search his house for the menorah.”

John's frown deepened. “How am I meant to distract a Rabbi?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fake a religious crisis?” he suggested.

“I'm not Jewish,” John pointed out.

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh. “Then tell him you're thinking of converting,” he said. “Does it really matter? Hurry up and get dressed.”

John glanced down at his lap then quickly away as if to avoid drawing attention to it. How he thought Sherlock could have missed the obvious signs of what had occurred was a mystery. “I need a shower,” he said.

Sherlock turned away. “You have fifteen minutes,” he said firmly. “If we waste too much time he'll go to the synagogue with the menorah, and we'll never find it there.”

He left John to it, going back down to the sitting room and throwing himself on the sofa. There was so much data-gathering involved in this relationship with John and sometimes he needed a few minutes of quiet just to sort it all through and collate it appropriately, even if he couldn't spare the time to draw conclusions from it all just yet.

Being involved with John had had a number of effects on his previously superb control over his mind that he had not foreseen when they had merely been friends. His thoughts had started to wander away from him at odd moments in order to linger on the way John cleared his throat when he was about to say something he found mildly embarrassing but was determined to get out anyway, or on the way the edges of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The balance to that occasionally alarming change was the surges of happiness that tended to blindside him every so often, and the feeling of contentment that came from evenings spent on the sofa together, evenings that would have been labelled as unimaginably dull before he'd had the chance to experience them.

He had no explanation yet for why just John's presence was enough to change 'dull' to 'pleasant', but he was hoping that if he just kept collecting data, it would all become clear in the end. After all, it seemed likely that these unquantifiable variables would be affecting the delicate machinery of his mind for as long as John was around, and it was vital to be able to accurately factor them in.

 _As long as John was around._ If it wasn't for this irritating sex thing, Sherlock would have allowed himself to believe that that would be a very long time – every other aspect of their personalities seemed to align well enough for a handful of carefully considered compromises to be enough to see them through the occasional disagreement. The demands of John's libido were not so easily worked around.

He found himself trying to calculate just how much that one incompatibility would affect the future - whether John would lose his patience and leave, or whether it was something that they would learn to deal with. As always when he attempted such a thing, he found himself frustrated by the lack of data. He let out a frustrated huff of breath and shut his eyes resolutely, turning his mind back to the matter of the Rabbi and the menorah. There was no point in wasting his brain power on unsolvable conundrums.

 

****

  


****

 

John glanced at his watch. Quarter past eleven, and Lestrade had already arrived to take the Rabbi into custody.

“I'm going to be able to make my lunch with Harry,” he said in a surprised voice. He'd rather given up on it when Sherlock had dragged him out of the house without even a cup of tea, although he'd put off texting Harry to cancel out of what he had thought was doomed optimism.

Sherlock glanced over from his inspection of the murder weapon – a large and ornate menorah – and frowned. “I thought that was yesterday.”

“Yesterday we spent the day in the morgue,” John reminded him. “I rescheduled for today.”

Sherlock's frown deepened and grew a little petulant, as it always did when John made arrangements to do something without him. “Lestrade will need your statement.”

“It can wait,” said Lestrade, putting the Rabbi's heavily annotated Torah into an evidence bag. “We know where to find you, after all.”

Sherlock scowled at Lestrade, then turned with the same look to glare at John. “Fine,” he said ungraciously. “Go.”

“Thanks,” said John, sharing an amused look with Lestrade before looking back at Sherlock. “I'll see you at home later.”

He hesitated before leaving, wanting to kiss Sherlock goodbye but not sure if the gesture would be welcome in front of Lestrade and his officers. They hadn't really told anyone about the change their relationship had undergone - John didn't particularly want to put up with everyone smirking and telling him they'd known all along, or, worse, trying to warn him off. Sherlock, presumably, hadn't said anything because he just didn't bother telling people things like that, not unless he needed to make a note of their reaction for a case. Besides which, it really had only been a couple of months, for all that it felt like longer. That was probably too early to announce domestic bliss.

At any rate, Sherlock had already turned away to inspect the bullet holes in the mantelpiece – the ones John was really hoping that ballistics wouldn't be able to match up with the bullet dug out of a certain taxi driver - so John just left, wondering if he'd ever stop feeling so constantly off-balance around Sherlock.

 

****

 

Harry was late, of course. John found a corner table and sat down with a coke to wait for her. He'd almost ordered a pint, then thought better of it – meeting Harry in Wetherspoons was a bad enough idea without him already having a drink before she arrived. She'd almost certainly claim that meant she had to 'catch up'.

Now that the distractions of trying to convince an impatient, murderous Rabbi that he was genuinely considering the Jewish faith and then trying to wrestle him into submission without getting brained by various pieces of religious paraphernalia were over, his mind turned, inevitably, to that morning. He'd woken up alone and smeared with drying come again, although it was the alone part that was weighing most heavily on his mind right now.

It had taken significant bullying to get Sherlock to at least lie down in bed with him at night, but what was the point if he just left as soon as John was asleep? He couldn't be getting any more sleep now than he had been before their relationship had changed. John remembered the disapproving look on Sherlock's face as he'd hovered in the doorway that morning, fully clothed and untouchable, and wondered for the millionth time just what exactly Sherlock was getting out of this and how long it would be before he got distracted by something more worth his time.

“I know that look,” said Harry's voice, interrupting his reverie, and he looked up to see her standing in front of him. “You've got girl problems.”

John snorted. “Not quite,” he said, noting the faint pink sheen on her cheeks and the careful smile she gave him. _Already been drinking, but still sober enough to try and hide it._

Her eyebrows raised and she sat down. “Boy problems?” she asked. “Finally managed to get it on with the mysterious flatmate?”

John cleared his throat. Trust Harry to guess right first time. “Sort of,” he hedged.

“Ooh,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Gossip. Tell me everything.”

“There's not much to tell,” said John with a shrug. “We're, uh, together, I guess.” Finding the vocabulary to define this thing with Sherlock was almost impossible, even when he was just thinking about it in his head. Trying to explain it to Harry was likely to be even harder.

“ _Together_ -together?” she asked, as if John would have a clue what that meant. “Or just-fucking-together? Or somewhere in the middle and you can't work out which way it's going, and that's why the frown?”

“Uh,” said John, trying to translate that into something he could understand. “Well, it's not just-fucking-together,” he said. “We're not having sex at all.”

Harry frowned. “Not got that far, or not sure you want to?” John hesitated, not sure he wanted to go into that much detail about his messed up sex life with his sister. They didn't have the kind of relationship where they talked about anything that went deeper than small talk, and he still wasn't sure enough about what Sherlock's asexuality really meant for them to be able to discuss it easily.

“Come on, little brother,” she wheedled. “You know the only gossip I get these days is vicarious. Don't hold back.”

John let out a long sigh. Well, Harry had been around people with alternative sexualities for several years, maybe she'd have some advice or insight into the whole thing. “He's asexual,” he said. “That's why there's no sex.”

Harry's frown deepened. “Asexual?” she repeated. “What the hell is that? He's got no cock, like a Ken doll or something?”

So much for hoping she'd be able to help. John winced and glanced sideways at the other people in the pub, hoping like hell that they couldn't hear any of this.

“No,” he said, “it just means he doesn't like sex.”

“Oh,” said Harry, not looking any less enlightened.

“Anyway,” said John, trying to move the conversation away from sex, which was always an awkward topic with Harry, and back to things he could talk about far more easily. “The rest of it is really good. It's just a bit new, really. We're still working out the kinks.”

“Heh,” said Harry with a knowing smirk. “I remember when Clara and I were working out our kinks. The size of our sex toy collection tripled.”

John groaned and put a hand over his eyes. “I did not need to know that,” he said. “Jesus, Harry.”

She shrugged unrepentantly and picked up a menu. “What are you having?” she asked, and John gratefully allowed the change of subject.

Two burgers and three pints later – all drunk by Harry – John got the text from Sherlock that he'd been half-expecting since he'd left him behind at the crime scene. For some reason, although he was perfectly happy to leave John without a clue as to where he was for hours at a time, he was incapable of letting John meet up with Harry, or Sarah, or any of his dwindling supply of other friends without texting him at regular intervals. John was torn between being irritated that he wasn't trusted to be out on his own without regular contact, and oddly touched at the level of concern it betrayed.

Today, 'oddly touched' was winning out, at least until he read the text.

 _Buy vinegar on your way home. At least a litre. SH_

John ran through the possible uses that Sherlock might find for that much vinegar and sent back:

 _Only if you can guarantee it won't be used to pickle anything that used to be human._

After another second's thought, he sent another text, adding:

 _Or animal. You have enough body parts already._

Harry watched him text with a faint frown. “Sherlock?” she guessed.

“Yeah,” said John, putting his phone down on the table between them so that he'd know when Sherlock replied. “Sudden need for vinegar – I'm pretty sure I don't want to know why.”

She tapped her ring against her glass, looking as thoughtful as she could when she was already more than halfway to drunk. “Maybe he's just not gay,” she said. “That's why he won't have sex with you.”

John let out a long sigh. He should have known she wouldn't let that go, and that her idea of helping would actually be the opposite of that. “That's not the problem,” he said with as much certainty as he could. “He hates women.” He hated most men as well, but there was no point in confusing Harry by telling her that.

“Maybe he just hasn't met the right one yet,” she said, with a twitched eyebrow that was probably meant to make it a joke. John wasn't really in the mood to take it like that, though.

“He's with me – a man,” he reminded her. “He's not straight.”

She rolled her eyes. “He's not properly with you though, is he? Not if he won't shag you. He's probably just trying to get you to, to do the washing up or the laundry or something. If he really wanted you, he'd want to have sex with you. That's how it works – otherwise you're just friends who cuddle sometimes. Or is that not allowed either?”

John glared at her, gripping tightly at his glass of coke. “I told you, he's asexual. He doesn't want to have sex with anyone.”

She scoffed. “Everyone likes sex. There must be more to it – your blog makes it clear that he plays games with people, surely you've asked yourself what game he's playing with you?”

John put his coke down on the table with a sharp bang. “It's not a game,” he said through gritted teeth. “It's my life, Harry, and I'm perfectly happy with it.”

She scoffed. “John Watson, happy without sex? Pull the other one – I know you, remember.” She let out a long breath. “Look, I'm just looking out for you. You know I don't want to see you hurt.”

John's phone beeped again.

 _Don't worry about vinegar, used wine instead. Hope you weren't too attached to your red shirt, experiment was less controlled than I thought. SH._

John let out a long breath through his nose. He'd rather liked that shirt, which he was sure had been safely in his wardrobe the last time he'd looked. He wondered what other pieces of clothing Sherlock might have purloined for his bloody experiments and briefly considered getting a padlock for his wardrobe. Not that that would do much good – Sherlock could pick locks with all the skill of a professional cat burglar.

“I have to go,” he said to Harry.

She made an irritated face. “He calls and you come running?” she asked. “And you think he's not playing games with you?”

John stood up. God damn her and her assumption that anything outside her understanding must be a game or a trick. “No, I'm just done with listening to my drunk sister be a bitch about my private life, when her own is in such a shambles.”

Her face turned red. “Go on then,” she said with bitterness. “But don't come running to me when he finds someone he actually wants to fuck and abandons whatever the hell experiment he's running on you.”

John left without another word, fuming with rage and wishing that, for once, he and Harry could have a real conversation without it descending into an argument. Somehow it felt that they were always just staring at each other across a chasm of misunderstanding, completely unable to see each other's viewpoints and stuck sniping at each other like teenagers instead.

It really didn't help that a tiny part of him, tucked deep down in his mind where he couldn't quite eradicate it, couldn't help wondering if she was right. Stringing someone along under the pretence of a relationship for his own motives was something that Sherlock might do, and not really ever realise just how wrong it was.

 _Not with me_ , John told himself with as much conviction as he could manage. _It's different with me._ He wasn't quite sure why, or how, but somehow he'd slipped past Sherlock's general indifference towards humanity. He had to believe that, or he really was the massive fool that Harry obviously thought he was.

 _Coming home,_ he texted to Sherlock. _Don't touch any more of my clothes._

 _Too late. SH,_ came the reply seconds later. John groaned to himself and quickened his pace, hoping like hell that he'd at least be left with enough clothes for him to wear to work the next day.

 

****

  


****

 

Sherlock wasn't sure how some of the people who emailed him were able to function day-to-day with what must, surely, be extreme mental handicaps.

“Of course your husband claims he didn't hear anything the night your necklace disappeared,” he muttered to himself. “He gave it to his 'girlfriend's' pimp.” He clicked the 'Reply' button and typed as much, then thought of the little frown John got whenever he thought Sherlock was being too blunt about these things. He sighed, deleted what he'd typed and replaced it with 'Suggest you check your husband's credit card bills more carefully, suspect he is involved with a prostitute.' He looked at it for a moment, wondering if that was enough, then thought of what John would do and added 'Apologies.' That would have to do.

The front door opened and John's distinctive footsteps started up the stairs. Sherlock listened to the pace of them for a moment and judged that John's half-day of work had left him in a good mood, feeling useful to society and content without having stressed him unduly with minor illnesses and petty complaints. Excellent.

“Hello,” said John cheerfully when he came in, pausing to hang his coat up. “Had a good morning?”

Yes, definitely in a good mood. “It's been adequate,” Sherlock allowed. “The utter rubbish in my inbox is threatening to ruin that, though.”

“We only wrapped up our last case yesterday,” John reminded him. “I'm sure you can wait a day or two before the next grisly murder.”

Sherlock made a disapproving noise at that – what was the point in waiting? Where was the mental exercise in sitting around reading emails from brain-dead idiots? Having to wait for a case was beyond tedious – he was sure he could already feel the carefully honed muscles of his brain atrophying. He didn't bother saying any of that, though, because by now John knew exactly how he felt about it. Instead he said, “You're just in time for tea.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You're going to make tea?” he asked incredulously.

“Well, now you're here you may as well do it,” said Sherlock, attempting to appear fascinated by an email about someone's missing dog. “I'm replying to emails.”

“Funny how you're always busy when it's time to make tea,” said John, but he didn't object. He went into the kitchen and Sherlock raised his eyes from the screen to watch him. There was something about the careful way John made tea that he found soothing to watch, inexplicable though it was. John had a very definite set of habits, some of them so ingrained that Sherlock wasn't sure if John noticed himself doing them.

First, all the old, stale, water was emptied out of the kettle which was refilled with the exact amount of new water required, then turned on. Conscientious enough not to want to waste energy or time boiling more water than needed, but not enough to sacrifice the quality of the tea by re-using water that had already been boiled.

Two cups were taken out of the cupboard and carefully inspected for any evidence of one of Sherlock's experiments even though Sherlock had promised several weeks ago not to touch any of the crockery that John used regularly. _Doesn't trust me,_ he thought, but that wasn't true. John was perfectly content to trust him on issues of life-and-death, or on drawing conclusions that he saw no evidence behind, it was just the smaller, day-to-day things that he seemed wary of. Well, there was probably good reason for that – Sherlock had promised, but he couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't forget one day, or decide that a particular experiment was important enough to risk John's wrath over.

A teabag went in each cup after a brief examination of the tea caddy, then John leant back with his arms folded, idly watching the kettle boil.

Watching the routine of it seemed to calm and focus Sherlock's mind in a way that little else barring illegal chemicals did, which was why he took every chance he could to get John to make tea. It was far more often than he actually wanted to drink any, although he'd found that if he didn't touch a cup once John had made it for him, the atmosphere grew frosty within the flat and it was significantly harder to persuade him to make tea the next time Sherlock wanted the pleasure of watching it. He'd discovered the exact percentage of a cup that he needed to drink in order to prevent John from declaring that he wasn't going to make Sherlock tea any more after a small amount of experimentation, and now he counted it as one of their more successful compromises, albeit one that John was unaware of.

The kettle boiled and John poured water into the mugs while it was still bubbling, then glanced automatically at the clock. He'd leave it to brew for exactly three and a half minutes, taking the time to find the least suspicious-smelling bottle of milk in the fridge and a teaspoon that he could trust. In the past, Sherlock had tried a number of experiments to distract John during this stage and discovered that it took an awful lot for him to allow the tea to over-brew. Even when he didn't have a timepiece available, he seemed to have an unerring ability to measure three and a half minutes accurately. Sherlock found it fascinating.

John glanced over at him while waiting for the tea and Sherlock re-applied himself to the business of reading his emails. People generally found Sherlock's scrutiny unsettling and the last thing that he wanted was for John to notice just how much time Sherlock spent tracking his movements and memorising every detail, and decide he'd had enough of being examined.

There was the chink of a spoon against ceramic and Sherlock looked back up in time to see John remove the second teabag, add sugar and stir thoroughly, surgeon's hands holding the spoon in a careful grip. Just enough milk to change the colour – John hated milky tea – then the milk was put back in the fridge, the spoon in the sink, and the cups were picked up. Sherlock looked back down at his screen as John turned to bring them over.

“There you go,” said John, setting Sherlock's down on the coffee table. “Do try to remember to drink it.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock absently.

John made a disbelieving grunt, then settled down in his chair with his own tea. “Anything interesting?” he asked.

“This woman wants me to investigate her neighbour, who she's convinced is running a cult from her front room,” Sherlock said.

John raised his eyebrows. “That could be fun,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Candles and a statue of a satyr do not make a cult. Moreover, the rather detailed list of every visitor to the neighbour's house in the last three weeks, along with the photos of the contents of her rubbish bin, makes me think that stalking might be the real crime here.”

John's phone beeped before he could reply and he glanced at it, then threw it on the coffee table with an annoyed grimace. That would be the apology text from Harry for whatever it was that she'd said to piss John off at lunch yesterday then. Sherlock glanced at the time. Half an hour later than expected – she must have drunk more last night than he'd factored for. He wasted several moments hoping that her hangover was truly hideous as payment for making John grumpy and sullen all yesterday afternoon. It had taken a wander through London's alleyways while Sherlock pointed out interesting details and made deductions about them, followed by dinner at a rather decent Chinese to cheer him up again. Not exactly a hardship, and close enough to what Sherlock had been planning to do anyway that there was little tangible difference, but it would have been better if John had started the outing in a good mood, rather than just ending it in one.

“How do you cope with it?” John asked suddenly.

Sherlock ran quickly through all the available data in case he had missed something, then admitted defeat. “With what?” he asked.

“With people assuming all kinds of rubbish about you just because they can't understand the truth?”

Whatever Harry had said must have really hit a nerve. Interesting. “I don't care at all about what the vast majority of people do or don't think about me,” Sherlock reminded him.

John let out a long breath. “Ah, yes,” he said in a half-tone to himself.

“You should try it,” suggested Sherlock. “Saves valuable mental space.” And besides, he thought, I want to be the only one whose opinion matters to you, but that didn't seem like the kind of thing that it was okay to say out loud. He'd started to take more notice of that sort of thing, at least around John, working on the theory that the less often he highlighted the differences between himself and the kind of 'ordinary' (dull) person that John had always presumed he'd end up with, the longer it would be before John left in order to find someone who fitted more closely in with what he'd expected.

“It doesn't work like that for me,” said John with a sigh, still staring at the phone on the table.

 _Ignore it,_ thought Sherlock. _Let her stew. Why waste time on keeping up with someone who always causes you such misery just because you happen to share DNA?_

John didn't obey his silent commands. He reached forward and picked up the phone with an air of resignation, stared at it for a long moment and then texted something short back. Sherlock stared back at his computer screen, hoping that his expression of annoyance looked as if it was aimed towards some idiot who'd emailed him a ridiculous case rather than at John's inability to take the logical path when it came to his sister.

 

****

 

It was a relatively quiet afternoon. Sherlock gave up on finding anything of interest in his inbox and instead pulled out the box of assorted fingers from the fridge that he'd been saving for an experiment on the effects of various household acids on fingerprints. He left the doors to the kitchen open as he worked so that he could see John where he was settled at the desk and frowning at his laptop screen. He was attempting to write up their last case, but from the number of times the delete key was hit with rather a lot of passion, Sherlock surmised that it was not going well.

John gave up at about the time that the evening grew dark enough for Sherlock to need to turn the light on, and threw Sherlock and his fingers out of the kitchen.

“I'm not cooking while there are decomposing body parts in the same room,” he announced and Sherlock sighed with irritation, then packed the fingers away in case he should need them again. He'd got most of the results he wanted, anyway.

He pulled out his violin while John cooked and ran through the tune that John had been humming on-and-off all afternoon, which earned him a pleased smile. He put it aside when John deposited a plate of some kind of pasta in front of him with an admonishment that he had to eat it.

“You're not on a case now,” he said. “You can afford to divert some energy to keeping yourself alive.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but ate most of it anyway before getting distracted by his violin again. He played a mixture of his favourite songs and John's, noting the contrasts and similarities. He stood by the window and stared out at the dark London night as he did so in order to keep himself from becoming distracted by John's every tiny movement as he had another go at writing up the case.

The words seemed to come more easily for John after that, and a couple of hours later he set his laptop aside with a satisfied noise that Sherlock suspected was unconscious, then glanced at the clock.

“Sherlock,” he said. “Are you going to play all night? I was going to watch the news.”

Sherlock let his violin fall to his side. “It's nothing but inaccurate rubbish,” he pointed out.

“And yet I'm going to watch it anyway,” said John, flicking the telly on. Sherlock rolled his eyes but put his violin away. At least if John was watching telly he could be relied upon to sit in roughly the same position for an extended period of time while at least partially distracted, which meant that Sherlock could curl up next to him without being made to move so that John could get on with something that was not as important as Sherlock but still seemed to have the priority.

He threw himself down on the sofa and arranged John's limbs until they were cuddled together to his satisfaction, much to John's silent amusement.

“Comfortable?” he asked once Sherlock was settled against his side.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, ignoring his tone. If he wasn't allowed to play his violin, he had to have something to do, after all.

The overly-dramatic theme music of the BBC news started and John's attention turned to the screen. Sherlock's attention stayed on John. His body was warm and steady against his, comfortably cushioned by the jumper he was wearing today, and after a few minutes, his thumb began to stroke gently against Sherlock's arm in a way that sent pleasant tingles through his skin. Sherlock captured his other hand and applied himself to studying it, taking in the familiar lines and faint scars that he had already identified on previous occasions and searching for any that he might have missed. He restrained himself from pointing out every detail that was reported wrongly on screen, in favour of merely labelling each news story either 'wrong' or 'almost accurate'.

John seemed to find that amusing rather than annoying, so Sherlock allowed himself to elaborate on a couple of stories that he knew rather more about than he probably should do, mainly because of Mycroft.

“Maybe I should just ask you for a rundown of the day's key events,” said John after Sherlock had revealed the real reason for the gridlock on the M4 that morning. “Although it seems like that might get me into trouble with MI5. Are you really meant to be telling me this stuff?”

“Probably not,” said Sherlock with a half-shrug. “Mycroft might kidnap you at some point and get you to sign the Official Secrets Act – he keeps trying to persuade me to, but the whole thing is ridiculous. Of course I'm not going to keep secrets from you – that would just be annoying.”

That earned him a pleased smile and a squeeze of his arm. Apparently disobeying the government was a good thing in this context. He filed that information away.

“Well, getting to see Mycroft is always a treat,” said John. “I'll count that as something to look forward to.”

The sports presenter came on screen and started yammering about football, a subject that Sherlock had less than zero interest in and which he knew John only paid attention to because he thought he should.

“Ask him if he's managed to work out what went wrong in Budapest yet,” said Sherlock with a smirk.

“Budapest?” asked John, then half-shook his head. “No, better if I don't know.” He still looked curious, though, so Sherlock distracted him with a kiss, judging that John's interest in the rest of the news was negligible at best.

John reacted very satisfactorily, making a surprised noise and then pulling Sherlock closer, allowing him to press his weight down and feel the solid warmth of John's body. This was the part that Sherlock liked best, being this close to John and being allowed to run his hands over him in order to trace every tiny change since the last time while John relaxed beneath him, hands clutching at Sherlock as if he was important, applying all his considerable expertise to kissing him. Sherlock allowed himself a moment of contentment and then lost himself in the myriad of sensations that their activities presented him with.

It wasn't long before John began to become aroused, but Sherlock had taken care to position himself in such a way that he was able to pretend that he hadn't noticed. John's hands started to tighten harder against Sherlock, running further down his back, almost to his arse before he remembered to pull them back to safer areas, and Sherlock felt the familiar frustration begin to build up that John wasn't able to just turn this part of himself off. Once or twice he'd contemplated some form of libido-dampening drug, but the idea of tampering with John like that had left him with an unpleasant taste in his mouth, even if the data on how it affected their relationship might have been interesting.

John abruptly pulled away from their kiss in order to rest his forehead against Sherlock's, eyes squeezed shut and his breath coming raggedly. “Sherlock,” he said in a rough voice.

Sherlock sighed and pulled further back. “You want to stop,” he stated in a weary voice.

“I don't want to stop,” said John, “but we probably should.” He opened his eyes and the look in them was almost enough to melt Sherlock's annoyance – an intricate mix of shame, want, regret and a reflection of the same frustration that Sherlock felt towards the situation.

“I could masturbate you,” said Sherlock bluntly. He didn't really like the idea, but if it meant that he got to keep John here on the sofa with him, then he could cope with a few minutes of unpleasantness first, especially as John was always so relaxed and pliable after he'd come. It was the first time he'd offered since the conversation they'd had after the first time they'd had sex, but he'd been thinking about it increasingly often, trying to work out just how far he'd go to keep John with him whilst simultaneously trying to work out the boundaries on John's refusal to engage in sexual activities with someone who didn't enjoy it.

John scowled at him and Sherlock knew he'd crossed some line he still wasn't clear on. “No,” he said angrily, pushing Sherlock back off him so that he could sit up. “I don't want that from you.”

Sherlock glanced deliberately at the erection trapped in his jeans. “You obviously do,” he pointed out. “Giving you a handjob really doesn't have to mean anything important, especially not whatever it is you're worried about.”

John glared at him. “It would mean something important to me. Besides, just a handjob – Sherlock, that's not what I want. It's not about me just wanting to get off, it's about me wanting to touch you. I want to bring you pleasure, because I- because you're important to me.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don't want that at all.”

“I'm fully aware of that,” said John, his voice thick with bitterness. He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes and looking as if he was forcing his emotions back down, then stood up. “I'm going to have a wank,” he announced, “alone. But after that I'm going to bed, and I really hope you'll join me.”

He left without waiting for a reply and Sherlock sighed and collapsed backwards on the sofa to stare up at the ceiling. Surely it shouldn't be this hard just to skip one aspect of a normal relationship? If only John's pride and sense of honour would just allow him to unbend enough to accept what Sherlock was willing to give him. A bit of experimentation around the issue was bound to turn up some interesting results, and might well provide Sherlock with the data he needed to be able to chart out the part of John that he still, frustratingly, didn't understand.

He wondered if he should be pushing the issue, trying to get John to explain himself properly, but the balance of their relationship seemed so precarious every time they came close to this subject. He couldn't risk upsetting it before he'd gather enough data to manage such a conversation without driving John away completely.

He made sure he was in bed by the time John was done in the bathroom. John slid in beside him with a tiny sigh, wrapped an arm around Sherlock and pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't take it out on you.”

 _Who else should you take it out on?_ thought Sherlock, then felt a chill at the thought of John 'taking out' his sexual frustration on someone else, somebody who'd be able to reciprocate his urges. _I can't let that happen,_ he thought, but he had no idea how to prevent it. Instead, he just draped his own arm around John and pulled him in closer.

 

****

 

The next day he was forced to finally go to Scotland Yard and give his statement for the Rabbi case – Lestrade had started texting him every hour, on the hour, with increasingly ludicrous threats covering everything from surprise drugs busts to withholding cases and even, as the day wore on and Sherlock failed to respond, sending Anderson around to camp out on his front door. Just the thought of having that imbecile squatting on their front doorstep, emitting stupidity vibes, was enough to get Sherlock to finally give in.

 _Enough. On my way. Stop getting so tetchy. SH_

There was no reply, which Sherlock took as a blessing. He glanced at his watch and decided to use the inevitably irritating journey to see if they'd managed to locate and close off the security loophole he used to get inside the New Scotland Yard building without an ID badge.

They hadn't. He allowed himself a smug smile as he swept, unannounced, into Lestrade's office which widened when Lestrade's face took on a long-suffering set just at the sight of him. If he was going to get dragged halfway across London just to write down what any idiot should already have known, then he was going to make sure that his annoyance was spread around as much as possible.

“You know,” said Lestrade, setting down his pen, “if you were any kind of decent person, you'd let us know how you get past security so that we could prevent possible terrorists doing the same.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Terrorists aren't nearly creative enough to be a worry,” he said and threw himself down into a chair. “I'm here,” he said, spreading his hands. “You have an hour of my time. Use it wisely.”

Lestrade's scowl deepened and he threw a bundle of forms and a pen at Sherlock. “You know the drill,” he said. “Just be quiet about it, I've got my own bloody paperwork to do. The Chief Rabbi is going nuts over this one – we need the case sewn up, so no buggering about with it.”

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, signalling how tedious this whole thing was, but filled in the statement as accurately as he could. Which was extremely accurately, of course. When he was done, Lestrade checked it over and signed it off, then fixed him with a steady look.

“And you're not withholding any evidence,” he said. “No DNA samples you've forgotten about under your bed, or murder weapons in the bath tub?”

“John doesn't let me put things in the bath any more, not after the incident with the clown wig,” said Sherlock, which wasn't an answer to the question, but Lestrade didn't seem to notice, caught in what looked like a particularly vivid mental image.

“Where was the rest of the clown?” he asked with a frown, and then abruptly shook his head. “Forget that, I have absolutely no need to know.”

Sherlock allowed himself another smirk. He had to take his fun where he found it on these visits, after all.

“Actually,” said Lestrade, sitting forward and clasping his hands together on the desk. “That was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Clowns or wigs?” he asked. “I don't think you really need to worry about either. Circus-related murders are down this year, and you don't seem to be showing any of the signs of male pattern baldness.”

Lestrade glared. Ah, he thought this was important, then. How tedious. “No,” he said, “it's about John.”

Sherlock stilled. What about John? Had something happened? He should be at the surgery, tending to geriatrics with the flu and babies with colic, what did Lestrade know that he didn't? _Nothing, you idiot_ , he thought to himself scathingly. _He wouldn't sit there not saying anything while you fill in bloody forms if something had happened._

“What is it?” he snapped.

Lestrade hesitated, then straightened his spine with determination. “I like John,” he announced. “We all do. He's a good bloke, and you can tell he means well – just wants to help people. That means a lot, these days.”

That was only scratching the surface of John's good qualities, but this conversation was already starting to make Sherlock's bones itch so he just nodded. “Yes, yes, he's a splendid fellow,” he said. “Are we done now?” He started to stand and Lestrade's eyes narrowed.

“Sit,” he said, pointing back at the chair. “You're going to hear me out, or I really will send Anderson to live on your doorstep.”

Sherlock sank back down into the chair.

“Right,” said Lestrade with a nod. “John Watson. Good bloke. And he thinks a lot of you, any idiot can see that. It's more than that, though. He makes you a better person – I'm not even sure you realise by how much. You're certainly more emotionally stable now.”

Sherlock glowered at Lestrade with the expression he usually reserved for Mycroft, but didn't deign to comment. This was none of Lestrade's business, any of it, and certainly not how John affected Sherlock.

“Look,” said Lestrade, clearly realising that he wasn't getting very far, “all I'm trying to say is that having John around is good, right? And you...well. You have a tendency to get bored of things, and- I don't know. Break them, I suppose, although that sounds more melodramatic than I mean to be.”

He was having more difficulty being articulate about whatever he was trying to say than Sherlock had known him to be before. _This is very important to him,_ he thought. _Or he wouldn't bother._ That didn't mean that he was any clearer on precisely what Lestrade was trying to say – it seemed to be one of those emotion-based things that people insisted were so important and which he never bothered with. He ran back through what Lestrade had said so far and was left no better off.

His face must have shown some of his confusion because Lestrade pursed his lips, then said, “All I'm trying to say is, if you hurt John in some way – get bored and discard him, or anything like that, we're all going to be more than a little pissed off. And you're going to end up regretting it, even if you can't see it right now.”

It was like a light being switched on. Realisation ran through Sherlock's veins like a high quality drug. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “You think I don't know what he's worth!”

Lestrade blinked. “Well, no, not really,” he said. “You're not one for getting why people are important.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John's not 'people',” he said with disdain. “He's far more important than that.” Lestrade wasn't looking in any way reassured, so Sherlock added, “There's no need to worry. I'm more than aware of just how exceptional John Watson is.”

“Ah,” said Lestrade, looking a bit taken aback. Clearly he'd been operating from an erroneous assumption about Sherlock's own self-knowledge. “Good.”

Sherlock stood up. “I'm doing everything in my power to keep him around,” he said. Except, he realised as he said it, that wasn't entirely true, because otherwise he'd have just lied from the start about this sex thing and be pretending to enjoy nightly sessions of sweating and panting right now. The thought sent a curl of distaste into his stomach and a vague, guilty feeling creeping across his brain. He shoved both aside as irrelevant distractions.

“Nothing illegal,” said Lestrade, looking more than a little relieved that the conversation was apparently over.

“Of course not,” said Sherlock as innocently as he could and then swept out of the office before he could be subjected to any more difficult conversations.

 

****

  


****

 

It was quiet for a few days after the Rabbi case. John attempted to take greater care preventing his sexual reactions from coming to Sherlock's attention, although he was pretty sure he largely failed at it. Sherlock, for his part, didn't mention them again, although after a week without a new case, he was so distracted with his crushing boredom and increasingly dark mood that John doubted he'd have noticed if John had taken his dick out and started masturbating in front of him.

That didn't mean that John was succeeding at conquering his libido, though. In fact, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Sherlock in bed since the first and only time they'd actually had sex. Before he'd found out that Sherlock hadn't enjoyed it and that it had just been another experiment to him – and a failed one at that – John had counted it as one of the better sexual encounters of his life. Even knowing it was never going to happen, part of him couldn't help wondering what a sequel would have been like, how much better they could have made it once they'd known each other's preferences and sensitive spots.

Late at night, when he was half-asleep and unable to really control his thoughts, he found himself mentally mapping all the places on Sherlock's body that he wanted to touch and taste, all the reactions and noises that he wanted to be able to pull from him. It was probably little wonder that his dreams were filled with the same images, or that even when he didn't come in his sleep, he still woke up hard.

Sherlock had usually already left the bed when he did wake up, if he came to bed at all. His increasingly depressed mood at the lack of exciting crimes meant that he'd started basically living on the sofa and John found himself missing the comfort of Sherlock's proximity as he slept, as well as their evenings in front of some rubbish telly. Sherlock didn't have the patience to deal with any form of telly at the moment, throwing cushions at the screen if John turned it on until John gave up and turned it off again.

 

****

 

He was lying in bed alone, post-morning wank, trying to find the energy to get up, shower and go downstairs to see if Sherlock had moved at all overnight when he got a text from Lestrade.

 _Sherlock's not replying. Can you remind him that we need the hair sample from the Hodgeson case back? Very soon, or CPS won't take the case forward._

John felt a surge of irritation. Of course Sherlock hadn't bothered to take key evidence back to the Yard – what did it matter to him if the criminals actually got prosecuted, as long as the mystery of the case was solved?

When he got downstairs, Sherlock was wrapped in his dressing gown and staring at the ceiling as if it was solely responsible for all human stupidity. He didn't even twitch at John's entrance, let alone look at him.

“Lestrade wants Hodgeson's hair back,” John told him. “I thought you'd given that back weeks ago.”

“Dull,” pronounced Sherlock. There was no other response and after a couple of minutes John gave up waiting for one and stomped angrily into the kitchen. He didn't have the patience for this.

“Tea,” demanded Sherlock, and John wondered if he was running some experiment that involved only speaking in one syllable at a time.

“Make your own,” said John, going through all the most obvious places looking for the hair - tea caddy, vegetable drawer, tucked underneath the grill pan. “I'm going to be late for work as it is.” Nothing more interesting than a dead slow worm came to light and he turned back to the sitting room with a sigh. “Where's this bloody hair? I'll take it over to Lestrade after my shift.”

Sherlock raised one pale hand and gestured at the bathroom. “Soap dish.”

Of course. John retrieved the hair sample, which was, by some miracle, still in its plastic bag, refrained from asking why hiding it under the soap dish made sense in any universe, pulled on his coat and left without bothering to say goodbye.

He felt bad about that once he'd been at the clinic for an hour and had had a chance to cool down a bit. He knew it wasn't really Sherlock's fault that he got stuck in these moods, and that it was probably much worse for him than it was for John, but it was just so infuriating to be around someone who refused to even attempt to find some way of entertaining themselves other than languishing in ennui.

He took the hair to Lestrade with an apology and something about his emotional state must have shown on his face because Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look. “I take it he's being a real delight at the moment?”

John let out a short huff of air. “I don't suppose you have anything to entertain him? Anything at all?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Sorry, there's nothing that we can't handle at the moment, and I do have to be able to justify calling him in to the Chief Inspector.”

“Great,” said John, resigning himself to another evening of having Sherlock's mood take over the sitting room like a living thing.

Lestrade tipped his head to one side. “Might be something to entertain you, though,” he said. “The unit's going for drinks this evening. You're welcome to join us.”

John barely had to think about it. “That would be great, thank you.”

“No problem,” said Lestrade. “Seems like you're as much part of the unit as anyone else these days, you and Sherlock.” He grinned at John and added, “He's welcome too, of course.”

John laughed. “I'll tell him,” he said. “Not sure the response will be very polite, though.”

It wasn't until he was on the way home that he really thought about it. Sherlock needed a distraction right now, something that used his brain and got him off that bloody sofa. If John managed it just right, an evening at the pub might just do.

Sherlock spared him one look when he came in, then returned to his contemplation of the ceiling. “Lestrade must have been even more scintillating than usual,” he said. “You're late.”

“We got to talking,” said John, taking his coat off. “It's not as if I'm going to get much of a conversation from you at the moment.”

Sherlock snorted disdainfully, but didn't attempt to disprove John by actually speaking.

“I'm making tea,” John said, heading into the kitchen. “Want some?”

There was no reply to that either but John made him a cup anyway, then settled into his chair and looked Sherlock over. He looked even paler than he had this morning, and a quick check revealed cold skin and a sluggish pulse.

“Did you eat anything today?” he asked.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise at the very idea and John nodded to himself. “Right then,” he said, standing up. “You're drinking that tea – all of it – and eating some toast, and then you'll need a shower and some real clothes.”

“What for?” asked Sherlock. “Waste of energy.”

“We're going out,” said John, starting to sort out some toast. Ideally he'd like to get a full cooked meal in Sherlock, but he knew how to pick his battles.

“There is nothing of interest at all for me out there,” said Sherlock. “You go, if you must, but don't involve me.”

“Too late,” said John. “You're coming.”

“I'm not.”

“There's been a crime,” said John, playing his trump card.

Sherlock sat up immediately. “Lestrade wants me for a case? Why didn't you say?”

“No,” corrected John. “This is something else. But I'm not telling you a single word about it until you've drunk that tea, eaten some toast and are showered and dressed.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment with narrowed eyes. “This isn't some trick because you're getting fed up?” he asked.

“No,” said John. “Well,” he amended, “it's not something I'd have mentioned if you were in a different mood, but I'd never lie to you. There has been a crime.”

Sherlock stared for a while longer and John could tell he was tempted to just collapse back onto the sofa.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Just do this for me.”

That seemed to be enough to tip Sherlock's mind, and he turned to his cup of tea with determination. “If this turns out to be dull,” he said in a warning tone, “I'm going to pick the three most hideous items of clothing in your wardrobe and throw them out.”

John rolled his eyes. “It's not going to be dull,” he promised. All the same, might be a good idea to hide some of his favourite clothes before they went out. He wasn't always able to accurately predict Sherlock's reactions.

 

****

 

Sherlock affected a blasé attitude about the whole thing but was unable to completely hide the curiosity that John could sense vibrating underneath his skin as they travelled to the pub that Lestrade had mentioned.

“Right,” John said as Sherlock gazed up at the pub with a narrowed gaze. “Someone who's going to come into this pub this evening stole something today.”

Sherlock turned to look at him instead. “Who?” he asked.

John rolled his eyes. “That's the point – I want you to tell me who.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “A game.” He looked at the pub again for a while, then shrugged. “I suppose it will pass a couple of minutes.”

John led the way inside, hoping that it would take longer than that as Sherlock started deducing quietly.

“It can't be anything you'd deem important, or you'd have gone straight to the police. Must be someone you saw today, possibly someone you know. You've been to work today, possibly a patient? And you went in to see Lestrade – plenty of thieves at the Yard, just a question of how you knew they'd come here. Only other place you've been today is the coffee shop across from the clinic, where you bought a cup of coffee and a tuna sandwich.”

How on earth had Sherlock known that? Sometimes John wondered if he just had bugs planted everywhere and simply made up all the deducing stuff in order to look clever.

He pushed inside the pub and Sherlock fell silent, glancing around and taking in the familiar faces of Lestrade's unit. “Ah,” he said, his amusement clear. “Well played, John.”

“John,” Lestrade greeted him from the bar. “And Sherlock. Good evening.” He did a pretty poor job of hiding his surprise at Sherlock's presence and John felt a brief flash of smugness that he'd managed to achieve the impossible and get Sherlock to come to the pub for a pint, even if it had taken false pretences to manage it. Well, sort of false pretences, anyway.

“Evening,” he returned, going over to join Lestrade. “How's it going?”

Sherlock followed him silently, gazing around the pub and taking everyone in.

“Pretty good,” said Lestrade. “You want a drink?”

“Pint would great, thanks,” said John.

“Sherlock?” asked Lestrade, and John had to nudge him to get a response.

“No,” he said, not bothering to even glance at Lestrade.

John sighed. “He'll have an orange juice,” he said. Might as well get something with some vitamins into him while he had the chance. Sherlock turned to glare at him and John raised his eyebrows. “Don't you think you should blend in a bit?” he asked in an undertone.

Sherlock made a disgusted face, but nodded. “Fine. Water, then.” Right, of course he'd go for the choice with the least nutritional value. Well, at least he'd be hydrated.

Lestrade ordered and the moment Sherlock had the drink in his hand, he was off. He circulated the room, chatting with almost everyone there as if he really was just there to socialise. John stayed by the bar watching him, noting that he only talked to each person once, and only for long enough to gauge everything he could about their day before he moved on.

“I have no idea how you managed it,” said Lestrade after about half an hour, by which time John could see that Sherlock was beginning to get frustrated that he hadn't got anywhere yet, “but I'm very impressed.”

John shrugged. “You just have to know which buttons to press. Do you want another drink?”

Lestrade was all too happy to take him up on his offer. John had a rather pleasant evening, chatting to people that he usually only saw in a professional context and occasionally catching sight of an increasingly perplexed Sherlock interrogating the barman or standing in the corner of the room, observing everything so thoroughly that John could imagine his gaze setting fire to people.

At about half past ten, he strode up to John. “You're sure this person came in tonight?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” said John.

Sherlock nodded to himself. “Well then, I have identified three people who have stolen things today, but I suspect that none of them are who you meant.”

Lestrade laughed. “You set him a challenge?” he said to John. Sherlock didn't even turn his head to acknowledge his presence.

John raised his eyebrows at him. “Go on,” he prompted.

“The first is Lestrade,” announced Sherlock. “He has several items of stationery in his pocket that technically belong to New Scotland Yard.”

Lestrade blinked. “Do I?” he asked, and reached into his jacket to reveal a couple of pens and a packet of post-it notes. “Damn,” he said. “I have to stop doing that.”

Sherlock gave him a dismissive look. “Not who you were referring to,” he said to John.

John shook his head. “No, but I'll be sure to report the embezzlement of government supplies to the proper authorities,” he said.

“Bastard,” said Lestrade without any heat. “See if I cover up for you next time there's some suspicious breaking-and-entering.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” said John as innocently as he could. “Who else?” he asked Sherlock.

“Sergeant Hartridge is wearing her flatmate's shoes and I am reasonably certain that it is without her permission,” continued Sherlock.

John looked over to where Fiona Hartridge was chatting to a couple of other sergeants. She was wearing a particularly bright pair of green heels and shifting her feet from side to side in an obvious attempt to relieve the pressure on her toes.

“That's not really theft,” said Lestrade. “She's probably intending to give them back. It's taking without consent.”

“I suspect that John's grasp of the legal system is not solid enough to make that distinction,” said Sherlock. “Never-the-less, I don't think that's what he was referring to, anyway.”

“No,” agreed John. “I think we can let her borrow her flatmate's things without getting involved. What's the third one?”

Sherlock nodded to a group of students huddled in the corner. “They've stolen at least three beer glasses from this pub over the last two hours.”

“Have they?” asked Lestrade with interest, leaning sideways so that he could see them better.

“They've hidden them in the blue bag that belongs to the particularly inebriated blonde girl with the pink top,” said Sherlock. “It's clear that they intend to leave without returning them, although I will acknowledge that it is not theft just yet.”

“Right,” said Lestrade, standing up. “Can't have that, not in a copper's local.” He strode over to the group and produced his badge. “DI Lestrade,” he introduced himself. “New Scotland Yard. Can I have a word?”

Sherlock caught at John's sleeve, distracting him from the horrified looks on the students' faces. “It wasn't them either,” he said. “There's no way you could have known about it in advance.”

“No,” said John again and Sherlock frowned with annoyance and frustration.

“Well, who was it then?” he asked, sounding a lot like a child who was being denied his favourite toy.

John reached into his pocket. “It was me,” he said, pulling out Sherlock's folding magnifying glass.

Sherlock stared at it in silence and for a long moment, John was sure that he was going to be furious. He probably had the right to be. Instead, Sherlock fixed him with a fascinated look.

“Brilliant,” he said. “You're brilliant – of course it was you. I should have known that immediately.”

John grinned with relief and held the magnifying glass out to Sherlock. “Well, I was always intending to give it back,” he said, “so I suppose it was just taking without consent.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it's yours now,” he said. “You stole it, you keep it. I'll get another one.”

“Fascist pig,” shouted one of the students at Lestrade and every policeman in the room suddenly started to take notice of the altercation. John was too busy grinning at Sherlock to even glance over. When Sherlock reached for his hand and said, “Let's go home,” he was more than happy to follow him out of the pub.

 

****

 

There was finally a case the next day. Sherlock texted John while he was at the clinic, demanding that he come to see a corpse in Stratford immediately. John reminded him that he had a job and told him that he'd be there in an hour, once his shift was over.

When he got there, he fully expected to be told that Sherlock was long gone, but he was still there, pacing the length of the tiny alley where the body had been found. The moment he saw John, he changed his step to stride towards him.

“John,” he said and took hold of his shoulders, bending his head just enough to press a kiss to his lips. “Thank god you're finally here. I need to know everything about epilepsy.”

“Uh, right,” said John, shaken a bit by the greeting. He would have said that Sherlock wasn't the PDA type, but apparently that wasn't true. “Where do you want me to start?” he asked, trying to ignore the looks he could feel coming from the police officers surrounding them. Trust Sherlock to 'out' them as a couple in such a dramatic fashion and then act as if nothing had happened.

“Look at this body,” demanded Sherlock, dragging him away by one hand to look at the corpse. On the way, John caught Lestrade raising his eyebrows at him, and just rolled his eyes in response. There wasn't really anything else he could do. Sherlock caught the exchange of looks and sent Lestrade a slightly over-the-top smirk, as if he'd managed to prove something already.

“Not quite what I meant,” was all Lestrade said, slightly dryly.

“About what?” said John, feeling out of the loop.

“Lestrade has been theorising before the facts again,” said Sherlock, then gestured down at the body - a contorted-looking business man, bearing all the signs of a seizure death. “Tell me what you see?”

John crouched down, preparing to examine the body and wondering just how much ridicule he was going to get when he inevitably got something wrong.

Sherlock seemed completely caught up in the case already though, skipping over John's errors without even a vague attempt to insult his intelligence before sniffing around the corpse again himself. His face lit up and he gasped out an 'Aha!' and then leapt up to stride off down the alleyway. John followed along behind him, trying to keep up with his leaps of logic and wondering if he was going to get any dinner tonight.

They spent the next hour visiting every bakery they could find so that Sherlock could inspect their croissants. The smell of baked bread made John's stomach rumble with emptiness, but they were never in any of them long enough for him to actually buy something. In each bakery, Sherlock inspected a croissant, declared that the glaze was all wrong then caught up John's hand and pulled him out of the shop. John wasn't sure what to make of it – in some ways it was a lot like being a small child who had to have their hand held in public to stop them running off, but at the same time, he wasn't actually going to protest getting to feel Sherlock's long fingers holding on to his own. He'd had rather a lot of fantasies about those hands, after all.

It was getting rather late by the time they found the right bakery. The owner was already shutting the shop and gave them a displeased scowl when Sherlock barged in, ignoring the 'Closed' sign on the door. John gave him an apologetic shrug, but that only increased the glare that was being levelled at them.

“This is it!” declared Sherlock with excitement, grabbing a croissant from the counter and waving it around. “The victim was here, with his killer.” He pointed a finger at the bakery owner. “You must have seen them. One man in a pinstriped business suit and a long grey coat, with brown hair that's starting to recede. He's a local, comes in almost every day, likes unnervingly bright ties. He's usually alone, but today he was with another man, taller or at least heavier, wearing expensive shoes.”

The owner waited out the speech and then said, in tones of deep disgust, “Pourquoi diable devrais-je vous le dire? Foutus Britanniques, faisant irruption comme si vous étiez chez vous.”

Oh god, thought John. A Frenchman. He tried desperately to pull back enough schoolboy French to ask if he spoke any English, but before he could stutter anything out, Sherlock was already speaking.

“Parce qu’entraver le cours de la justice est aussi grave ici qu’à Lille, et et vous ne voulez pas passer la nuit derrière les barreaux, j’en suis sûr.”

John stared at him in shock. He hadn't known Sherlock could speak French, or that he'd sound so good when he did, all smooth, flowing vowels and casual confidence.

The baker seemed just as surprised as John was, but after a moment he rallied himself. “Bon, posez vos satanées questions, alors. Mais vite .”

“On a besoin de renseignements sur deux hommes qui étaient ici tout à l’heure. L’un était un habitué, les cheveux marron, front dégarni, portant un costume rayé et un long manteau gris. Il préfère les cravates vraiment très vives. D’habitude, il est tout seul, mais aujourd’hui il était avec un autre, un homme plus grand, ou au moins plus gros, qui portait des chaussures chères. Tout ce que vous pouvez nous dire nous sera utile.”

John had no idea what was going on. Other than the occasional word here and there he couldn't understand any of it, but that didn't mean that he wasn't fascinated. Sherlock's mouth shaping the French words had him riveted, and the rich, dark tone of his voice was starting to have an unexpected side effect. _So that's why they call it the language of love,_ he thought, shifting his position in an effort to disguise his arousal.

“Je connais ceux dont vous parlez,” replied the baker. “L’habitué est banquier, je crois. Il travaille dans un des bureaux là-bas.” He gestured down the street. John noted that his voice speaking French didn't seem to have the same effect on his body that Sherlock's did. Well, it was a lot more nasal and, really, a bit too French. “Je ne sais pas grand-chose sur lui sauf qu’il aime les croissants et qu’il prend deux sucres avec son café. L’autre avait l’air dur, pourtant. Il était énorme, avec le nez cassé. Ils se disputaient déjà quand ils sont entrés mais je n’y faisais pas attention.”

“Je vois,” said Sherlock, and a shiver went down John's spine. “Est-ce qu’il n'y a rien d’autre que vous pourriez nous dire, n’importe quoi, qui pourrait nous aider?”

The baker shrugged in such a typically French manner that John started to wonder if maybe he was putting on the more-French-than-de Gaulle act as a marketing ploy.

“Il est très probable que vous avez été la dernière personne a avoir parlé avec cet homme, à part son meurtrier,” said Sherlock, and his voice was lower, deeper, sending a shot of pure lust through John. “Savez-vous combien de fois il arrive que la dernière personne à avoir été en contact avec la victime est aussi le meurtrier? Pensez-vous qu’être suspect dans le meurtre d’un habitué sera bon pour le commerce?” John cleared his throat, tingles running over his skin and heat starting to pool in his belly. This was ridiculous.

The baker pulled a face. “Pourquoi est-ce que les Anglais se sentent toujours obligés d’utiliser la menace?” he muttered as if to himself. “Attendez, il y avait quelque chose - l’autre homme portait une veste noire avec une sorte de logo. Quelque chose comme ça. ” He sketched something out on a piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock, whose face lit up in the way that John was now intimately familiar with. He'd cracked some aspect of the case.

“Parfait, merci,” he said, then nodded at the croissant he'd inspected when he first came in. “On en aura besoin, comme pièce à conviction.”

The baker scowled and put it in a bag then handed it to Sherlock, muttering something darkly under his breath. Sherlock ignored him, taking the bag and sweeping out of the shop without another word.

“Au revoir,” said John awkwardly to the baker, feeling he should at least say something.

“Alors là, j’espère bien que non!” said the baker in response, and John just gave him a faint smile and then headed out after Sherlock.

Sherlock had paused to wait for him outside and thrust the bag at him as soon as he came out.

“Your pockets are bigger than mine,” John pointed out, not taking it. He did enough running around after Sherlock without being his packhorse as well.

“I'm aware of that,” said Sherlock. “I'm not the one who's hungry, though.”

“Oh,” said John, surprised. He took the bag, not quite sure how to react. “Thank you.”

Sherlock gave him a pleased smile, then narrowed his eyes, glancing over John's body. John felt himself flush, knowing exactly what Sherlock was reading from him.

“Really, John?” asked Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. “French? Tu me déçois, c’est tellement évident que c’est une langue sexy; je m’attendais à mieux que ça de ta part.”

Having Sherlock speak French directly to him had even more of an effect on John than it had in the shop, and he had to drop his eyes from Sherlock's face to push it all back. “Don't do that,” he said tensely.

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh, but let the matter go. It hardly mattered anyway, thought John as he followed him to some unknown destination, trying to eat the croissant at the same time. It wasn't as if Sherlock was ever going to need to know how to turn John on. The thought was depressing so he pushed it away and walked a little faster to keep up with Sherlock's long stride.

 

****

 

The place they were headed to was a boxing club, but Sherlock didn't go inside. Instead, he led John all around the building as he examined the walls, doors and windows, then took him across the road to a second-hand bookshop, where they pretended to be interested in battered copies of 'British Birds' and 'The Holy War' while Sherlock observed everyone who entered or exited.

John had just become absorbed in a book of rather racy poetry by some Roman when Sherlock set his book back on the shelf. “Nothing more to be done here,” he announced. “We need to go back home.”

“Right,” said John, not looking up from the book and starting to read quicker so that he could reach the end of the poem he was on.

Sherlock glanced at the cover of the book and smirked. “I should have guessed you'd enjoy Catullus.”

John set the book back down on the shelf where he'd found it. “It's not quite what I thought Roman poetry would be like.”

“Your school missed out some important aspects of Roman civilisation then,” said Sherlock. “Come on.”

They got a cab back to Baker Street and John took the chance to try and pry some information out of Sherlock about the case.

“Really, John, if you can't keep up I don't see why I should explain every step,” said Sherlock, as if he didn't love to explain every genius deduction he made.

“I might have better luck knowing what was going on if I spoke French,” John pointed out. “As it is, one of the key conversations went right over my head.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “You didn't understand any of that?” he asked.

“My French is rather limited to 'Je ne parle pas le francais' and 'ou est la toilettes',” said John.

“Les toilettes,” corrected Sherlock. John rolled his eyes, but all his annoyance melted when Sherlock reached out and took his hand, running a thumb over his skin. “You didn't miss much. The man was an idiot, but he did say that the victim came in with another man this morning, a man who I'm ninety-six percent sure is the murderer, and who is either a member of that boxing club, or stole the jacket of someone who is.”

“Ah,” said John. “So, what now? Look up all the members of the club?”

“Something like that,” said Sherlock. John didn't push for any more details – he knew how Sherlock loved to keep everyone in the dark as much as possible, until he could unveil the whole solution like a magician.

They got back to Baker Street and Sherlock immediately flung himself on the sofa with his laptop.

“I'm going to make some dinner,” said John. “Want any?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock dismissively. “Far more important things to be doing than eating.” He managed to make it sound as if John had suggested they waste time wrestling snakes. John rolled his eyes to himself, and left him to whatever it was that he was looking up.

 

****

 

John made himself dinner, ate it, then cleared it up, during which time Sherlock stayed in exactly the same position, hunched over his laptop without any sign that he even knew John was there. Once he was all done, John sat down on his chair and let his eyes linger on Sherlock for a bit.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asked without much hope.

“Stay quiet,” said Sherlock sharply, not even pausing his typing.

John let out a careful breath. “Right,” he said, trying not to get irritated.

“Quiet,” repeated Sherlock, his eyebrows twitching with annoyance.

John scowled at him, but was ignored. He spent a few minutes trying to remind himself that this was just how Sherlock was when he was on a case, but it didn't really help. Sherlock's ability to completely shut him out like this always managed to make him feel rejected, even if he knew it was just Sherlock's single-minded dedication to his work, and that he'd known about it long before their relationship changed.

The room was silent except for the clattering of Sherlock's fingers dancing over the keys and the ticking of the clock, and John tried to think of something to do. The thought of just sitting in all evening, watching Sherlock act as if he didn't even exist was just depressing, especially as he could still feel the dissatisfaction of thwarted lust from earlier. Either he could stay here, at some point going off to wank alone before going to bed equally alone, or he could get out of the flat, calm down a bit and get over his temporary dissatisfaction. He stood up abruptly.

“Going to the pub,” he announced. There was no response, so he just grabbed his coat and left.

 

****

 

Going to the pub had become one of John's favourite methods of escaping Sherlock when he just got too...well, too Sherlock, and he just needed to get away for a bit and remember what life was like for normal people. He knew a handful of the regulars at their local now, enough to chat about the football or exchange views on the weather, at any rate. None of them were in that night though, so he just settled on a bar stool and ordered a pint. He'd just have one, take the time to collect himself a bit, then head back home once he was less irritated.

The low level of arousal kept burning in his stomach, reminding him how long it had been since he'd got laid and that, as long as he stayed with Sherlock, he was never going to get properly laid again. And he was going to stay with Sherlock – there was no real question about that. As long as Sherlock put up with him, there was no one else he wanted to be with. He just wished that being with Sherlock included sex. The idea of lonely wanks being all he'd have for the rest of his life was horribly depressing.

“You look like a man in need of more than a beer,” said a flirtatious voice next to him, and he looked around to see a woman in her mid-thirties with long blonde hair and an inviting smile.

Her words were close enough to what he'd been thinking that John couldn't stop himself returning her smile ruefully. “That obvious?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Only if you're looking,” she said, shifting closer to him. “I've seen you here before with that look, you know.”

John wasn't an idiot. He knew he should shut down her flirting by mentioning that he was with someone, but the truth was that having her attention on him was flattering. However much he tried to tell himself that she'd been wrong, Harry's insinuation that it was just that he wasn't attractive enough for Sherlock to want to have sex with him had reverberated with a tiny, hidden-away part of himself. Having a good-looking woman smiling at him like that was a boost to his ego, a reassurance that he wasn't completely undesirable. And it wasn't as if it would cause any harm, right? They were just talking.

“It's a shame you've never come over to talk to me before, then,” he said. “Would you like a drink?” It was only polite to offer, he told himself, and even if it came out as a bit flirty, it didn't mean anything.

 

****

  


****

 

John was later coming back from the pub than Sherlock had expected him to be. Usually he only went for the time it took to drink one pint, two if there was someone he got chatting to, then came home. When he did finally return, Sherlock could tell from the pace of his steps up the stairs that he'd had at least three, probably four. No wonder he was later than usual.

Sherlock wouldn't have admitted it, but he'd been waiting for John to get back so that he could use him as a sounding board. He found that talking through a case out loud with John there to make the occasional, misguided comment helped his thoughts to flow better, and the skull really wasn't a good substitute, not now he knew what it was like to have John instead.

“John,” he started as John came in and started to take his coat off. “There's something here that I-” He cut himself off short. There was something on John's sleeve, something that made Sherlock's insides turn to ice. He leapt up off the sofa and strode forward to investigate, hoping he was mistaken.

“What..?” started John as Sherlock grabbed his arm and squinted at the mark he'd seen.

“Quiet,” said Sherlock. It was definitely a trace of hand cream, something expensive and female. Some woman had touched John's arm. He glanced over the rest of John, looking for other signs. John's collar was more open than it usually was – he'd undone one of the buttons. There was more than beer on his breath – he'd had a glass of wine as well. He only drank wine when he was already getting a glass for someone else.

Betrayal ran through Sherlock, followed by an avalanche of anger. Some emotions he knew all too well. “Who was she?” he demanded.

“Who?” asked John, attempting to sound puzzled, but there was an unmistakeable quiver in his voice. He was trying to hide something.

“The woman you bought a drink and let touch you,” said Sherlock. He dropped John's arm and stepped away from him, suddenly not wanting to be that close to him.

“We were just talking,” said John, but it sounded like an excuse. “There's nothing to be jealous of.” He reached out to touch Sherlock and Sherlock took another step away, out of range.

“I'm not jealous,” he said in a restrained voice. “I'm disappointed. I thought you claimed to have morals. How is disappearing off to pubs and throwing yourself at other people in any way moral?” Everything had been so good today – so easy. There'd been a case finally, an exciting one, and John had let him kiss him in front of the police, hopefully proving to Lestrade that whatever he was worried about wasn't a problem. Sherlock had even managed to win his favourite expression from John – a pleased, warm, almost taken aback look - just because he'd conned a croissant out of an imbecilic French baker for him.

And now this. It had come out of nowhere, like a face-full of cold water from someone you counted a friend, or the sudden realisation that the incredibly exciting murder you'd been chasing was just an unusual heart attack in disguise.

“It wasn't like that!” protested John. “Sherlock, you're being ridiculous.”

“Oh, suddenly it's ridiculous to expect fidelity,” said Sherlock bitterly. He'd told John from the start that there couldn't be anyone else – he didn't _share_. He couldn't stand even the idea of anyone else being that close to John.

“Nothing happened!” said John, beginning to look more annoyed than guilty. “I just talked to her for a bit – you're over-reacting.”

“You thought about it, though,” said Sherlock with certainty. He knew John, knew how his mind worked, even the disgustingly pedestrian parts. “What did you imagine? Doing all the things that I won't let you do to me?” he spat out.

John's face went pale with anger. “All right, maybe I did think about it,” he said. “It's what normal blokes do! I'm not a bloody monk, you know. It doesn't mean anything though – I came back here to you, didn't I?”

Yes, he'd come back, but he'd still gone in the first place. Gone looking for something that Sherlock apparently couldn't provide him with. The hurt in Sherlock's chest swelled, and he choked it back down with more anger.

“Normal,” he repeated with scorn. “Yes, that's all you are, John. Normal, boring, _dull_. I don't know why I bothered to expect more from you.” He turned away, grabbing his laptop from the sofa and sweeping off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

He'd thought John understood, he'd thought that he could trust him, but it seemed that the minute Sherlock's back was turned, he was letting himself be fondled by every drunken woman in London. And during a case as well – how was Sherlock meant to concentrate on a murder when there was all this emotion churning around in him?

He dropped his laptop on the bed, picked up a mug and threw it at the wall. It smashed against the wall, china shards and cold tea going everywhere, but it didn't really make him feel better. He sank to the floor, resting his forehead on his knees and clenching his fists. Why had he let anyone have this much power over him? What had he been thinking?

There was silence for a few minutes from the other room, then he heard John go into the kitchen and the distinctive sounds of tea-making began. Instead of soothing Sherlock like it usually did, it just served to set his teeth on edge. The notes of the ritual seemed off – the mug set down too sharply and the kettle not switched on until after the teabag had been located. It felt like John was doing it deliberately, just to aggravate him more.

Sherlock struggled to stop himself yelling all the cruel things through the wall that were pushing at the edges of his mind, biting at his tongue to keep them inside. He needed to push it all aside and focus on the case for now – he'd made the mistake of letting this be more important than his work, that was where he'd gone wrong. He just needed to rid himself of these emotions, get his concentration back and solve the murder.

Water was poured into the mug and Sherlock took a long, careful breath. Three and a half minutes, then he'd stand up and get back to the case. He started to push all the emotions away, locking them down into hidden corners of his brain.

Even for a mind as disciplined as Sherlock's, shutting off all the feelings that he'd allowed in took some time, but it was still far too early when he heard John fish the teabag out of his cup. That had definitely not been three and a half minutes – it had been closer to two.

The realisation that the fight had affected John enough to throw him off his stride like that made Sherlock feel better briefly. At least he wasn't the only one dealing with all this painful inner turbulence and having his balance upset. He took a deep breath and stood up. No hope for it, he'd have to play the violin for a while. That would settle his mind enough to regain his focus on logic, and then he'd be able to dedicate himself to the case properly.

 

****

 

Sherlock didn't bother sleeping that night. The next step for the case required daylight, which was hours away, but there was still plenty of research to do, even if some of it was a little tenuously linked. Anything that might prove useful was worth investigating, particularly if it kept his mind distracted.

John had gone up to his room with his tea and Sherlock could hear him moving about up there for a while before he settled, presumably into bed. At around three he got up again and came back downstairs to the kitchen. Instead of making tea, which was his usual routine when he woke up in the middle of the night, he paused outside Sherlock's bedroom door.

Sherlock had left his light off, content to be illuminated only by the glow of his laptop's screen, so when John hesitantly asked “Sherlock?” through the door he was able to pretend that he was asleep and ignore it. There was an indecisive pause then, thankfully, John went back up to his room. Sherlock didn't want to waste his time listening to more excuses and justifications when there was a case on. He had far more important things to do.

He left the next morning before John could get up again. He spent the morning scouting around several of his contacts, getting information on the boxing club and its members, and resolutely telling himself that it was better to do this alone, without John holding him back with his inability to blend in and his continual amazement at the places Sherlock took him to, and the people Sherlock knew.

At around noon, he got a text. _Going shopping. Do you want anything?_

Sherlock scowled to himself at the faux normality of it and didn't bother to reply. It was far too obviously an attempt to pretend nothing had happened – John never usually bothered asking him when he went shopping. After all, they both knew that most of the things that Sherlock would ask for would just get vetoed as too dangerous or too disgusting to have in the house.

Half an hour later John texted him again. _Ignoring me won't solve anything._

Sherlock let himself get far too distracted by that, stalking through the streets with no real awareness of anything outside the burning anger in his mind. How dare John imply this was his doing in any way? He wasn't the one who had gone out and found some woman to fawn all over after agreeing that there wouldn't be anyone else.

He had to slip into an alley and force his mind back into focus before he infiltrated the gym. _Concentrate on the case,_ he reminded himself, readjusting his clothing so that he looked more like the kind of man who might be found in a gym that specialised in illegal bare knuckle fighting. Just as he'd redirected his thoughts towards what was really important, he received another text.

 _At least text me if there's anything dangerous you need back up for._

He scowled to himself. He was perfectly capable of doing this on his own – he'd managed it for years before he'd met John, after all, and been just fine.

He found his way in through the back entrance to the club without any difficulty and then into the 'secret' office that they probably thought was well-hidden but which it was child's play to locate. Inside, there were several large filing cabinets which turned out to contain all the records that the police would want to get their hands on, including files for everyone who owed money to the club. It only took Sherlock a few minutes to find the one that related to his murder victim. He'd had gambling debts that he'd tried to pay back with investments at the bank he worked for, which had then fallen through. The notes on the file heavily implied that the club owner had been less than pleased about that.

Sherlock took photos of all the relevant paperwork on his phone – he'd tip off the police once he was out of there, but it didn't hurt to have his own copies of the evidence. Sometimes Lestrade was annoyingly difficult about sharing.

Just as he was replacing it all where he'd found it, there was a noise outside. He ducked behind the filing cabinets, crouching down in the small space between them and the wall just as two men came in. Both had the heavy builds of boxers gone to seed, but one of them was dressed in what he probably imagined was a sharp-looking suit, which only managed to highlight the heaviness of his figure. Must be the club owner, then.

“The police are still investigating,” he was saying, sounding angry. “I thought you said Boris was going to sort it – this doesn't seem very sorted to me.”

“They haven't found anything definite yet,” said the other man, who was dressed in one of the club's jackets, just like the murderer had been. “It'll get ruled natural causes yet, they've nothing to say it wasn't.”

Wrong, but Sherlock didn't think this was quite the time to point that out. He was very aware of just how badly hidden he was by the cabinet – it was hardly ideal as a hiding place for a man of his height, however tightly he curled his legs to his body. If one of the men came too close then he'd be glaringly obvious, and he really didn't fancy having to explain himself to either of them. They didn't seem look like the sympathetic types.

“You better be right about that,” said the owner. “If they start being a real nuisance, we might have to start disappearing coppers, and that's expensive work.”

Not the first murder they'd arranged, then, if their attitude to killing police was that casual. Probable then that Sherlock wouldn't even be given the opportunity to explain himself if he were found right now – just taken straight off somewhere and disposed of. He began to wish that he had the security of knowing that John and his gun were somewhere near-by. Perhaps it had been a mistake to infiltrate this club without him.

“It'll all be fine, boss, you'll see,” said the other man. “Boris will sort it.”

There was only an unimpressed grunt in response and then, thankfully, they left the room again. Sherlock waited a couple of minutes then slipped out of his hiding place. Boris. There'd been information on a Boris in the employee section of the files, including an address. He dug it out again and memorised it. Time to wrap this case up.

He escaped from the gym through the back exit and made his way to a main road where he could get a cab, sending the photos he'd taken to Lestrade along with the address of the gym. Let him deal with all the boring paperwork involved in organising a raid while Sherlock got hold of Boris and found out how he'd managed to trigger an epileptic fit with a croissant. That was the only interesting part of the case left.

While in the cab, he pulled his phone back out and stared at it for a while. Although nothing had actually happened in the club, it would have been useful to have John there in case it had, and any visit to a hitman's house was likely to involve a high risk of discovery and therefore injury. Precisely the sort of thing where, logically, he should be taking along an ex-soldier to aid him.

He was trying to cut all useless emotion out and concentrating on the pure application of intellect. That meant he should be doing whatever made most sense within the context of the case, and not refusing aid that he might well need just because it hurt to think about John at the moment.

He huffed out a sigh and texted John the address, adding _I'll be going inside in half an hour. If you're not there, I won't wait._ If John made it, he made it, if not then Sherlock would just go in alone.

The reply came immediately. _I'll be there._

 

****

 

John was as good as his word. He was waiting on the corner of the road as Sherlock got out of his taxi, leaning back against the wall as if he'd been there a while, although Sherlock could tell from his stance that he'd been there less than a minute. Just the sight of him was enough to give Sherlock a comforting warmth in his stomach, closely followed by faint nausea when he remembered their fight. The unwanted image of John being pawed at by some woman sprang into his mind, and he had to push it all back down, telling himself sharply that only the case mattered right now.

“Sherlock,” John greeted him, straightening up.

Sherlock turned away in an effort to refocus his mind on the case. “He lives up here,” he said, leading the way to Boris's building. “A flat on the top floor. Hopefully he won't be in – we need to search it.”

“Right,” said John, falling into step with Sherlock as easily as if it was where he thought he belonged. It must be missing something, thought, if he was going off after bar floozies every time Sherlock turned his back. Sherlock clenched his teeth and forced himself to run through everything he knew about Boris. Texting John had been a mistake after all – how could he work with his mind like this?

“Sherlock,” said John in a hesitant voice as they walked. “About last night...”

“I don't want to hear it,” said Sherlock, cutting him off. “I'm working – you know that comes before anything else. It'll have to wait.”

John made an unhappy face, but nodded anyway. “Right, of course,” he said.

Sherlock ignored the tone of his voice in favour of inspecting the front entrance to the flat building. It would be easy enough to get into, given a couple of uninterrupted minutes. “Block me from the view of passers-by,” he instructed John, then pulled out his lockpicks and crouched down to start on the lock.

“One day we're going to get arrested for this,” said John in a resigned tone, moving to block him with his body. Sherlock ignored him.

Getting into Boris's flat was as easy as getting into the building had been, and it was just as empty as Sherlock had hoped.

“Watch the door,” he told John without looking at him, then started going through the place, looking for evidence. There were the remains of a chemical lab in the kitchen, next to a pile of notes that Sherlock immediately started going through. Somewhere in here was the key to how Boris had managed to trigger an epileptic fit, and once he had that the police would have to rule the death as murder and arrest him. He found the correct piece of paper just as John slipped into the room, half-shutting the door behind him.

“He's coming,” he hissed. Sherlock took a quick photo of the paper on his phone and sent it to Lestrade with the address just as a key rattled in the front door. John was glancing anxiously around the kitchen, looking for a hiding place that Sherlock already knew wasn't there. If they were really lucky, Boris would go into another room first and they'd be able to slip out of the flat without him ever knowing they were there.

It didn't work like that, of course. Boris came in, set his keys noisily down on the side table, and then headed straight into the kitchen.

“Shit,” hissed John and pulled his gun out of his pocket. Sherlock just pulled himself up to his full height and waited. If he was going to be caught trespassing in someone's kitchen, he wasn't going to cower about it.

Boris came into the kitchen and stopped dead at the sight of them. His face went pale and his eyes flicked guiltily to the chemical equipment, then he abruptly turned around and ran.

“After him!” called Sherlock, vaulting over the kitchen table as he headed after him, John only a few steps behind him. There was really no need – the police would pick him up soon enough, but he was running and Sherlock felt like chasing. After all, why let the police have the fun of the final take-down?

Boris pelted out of the flat and along the corridor to the lift.

“Stop!” called out Sherlock. He was ignored. Excellent.

Boris hit the lift button frantically a few times, then glanced over his shoulder again and headed for the door that led to the stairs.

“Wait!” called John. “We just want to talk!” A lie, but no one ever seemed to suspect John of lying. Sherlock pushed back the bitterness of the thought and pushed his speed up a gear as Boris headed up the stairs.

 _Up,_ Sherlock thought. _Heading to the roof._ The buildings around here were all of a similar height, easy enough to traverse and there was probably more than one way down to street level. Sherlock put on another burst of speed, pelting up the stairs after Boris in an effort to catch him before he disappeared amongst the rooftop fixtures.

They were too late, of course. Sherlock burst out of the rooftop door to see no sign of Boris and cursed.

“Damnit,” gasped John behind him.

“Silence,” ordered Sherlock, glancing rapidly about. Two buildings adjoined this one; there were only two logical ways he could have gone. One way was hidden by a series of air vents, high enough to hide a man of Boris's height, and the other was behind the exit from the stairs. He glanced down at the concrete beneath their feet, but there was no sign of which way Boris might have gone, and no sound of running feet in either direction.

“You go that way,” he told John, gesturing in front of them. “If you don't find him, double back this way.”

He turned the other way without waiting for John's acknowledgement. Usually he'd take a quick glance at John's face before he left him, just a brief snapshot in case something unpredicted happened, but there was nothing of today that he wanted to keep in his permanent memory, and he still wasn't really capable of looking at John's face without seeing the ghost of that woman between them. It wasn't conducive to keeping his mind focussed on catching Boris.

There was the beep of a message arriving on his phone as he headed across the roof, ducking around chimneys and hopping down a slight drop from one building to the next. He pulled the phone out and opened the message without looking, then glanced down for the briefest of moments to read it.

 _On our way to you. Don't do anything stupid. Lestrade_

Sherlock pushed the phone back in his pocket without bothering to reply. Of course he wouldn't do anything stupid – he never did.

 

****

 

There was no sign of Boris on the next roof over, and the gap to the building beyond that was too far to be jumped. Sherlock scowled at the drop and was turning back to make sure he hadn't missed a way off the roof, a fire escape or roof access hatch that Boris could have escaped through, when he heard a gun shot.

John was in trouble.

He was running back across the roofs before his brain could even process the thought, his mind blank of anything except _get to him now_. The distance to where John had been stretched out impossibly far as another gun shot rang out, followed by a yell.

 _John's voice,_ Sherlock identified. _Shouldn't have split up, shouldn't have left him alone, stupid stupid STUPID._ He ducked around the air vents, getting closer to the unmistakable sounds of a fight – scuffling feet and the hard sound of flesh hitting flesh.

“Give up,” panted John's voice from just ahead. “My partner will be here any second.”

Sherlock skidded around the corner to a scene that stopped him dead in his tracks. There was a few feet of flat roof before another drop, straight down at least five storeys and John and Boris were poised at the very edge, locked together in a struggle. A struggle that Boris, who was a great deal taller and heavier than John, seemed to be winning.

His back was to Sherlock so that he didn't see his arrival, but John did. He was distracted for a split second, glancing over at Sherlock with a desperate, intense look that Sherlock couldn't decipher.

“No way,” growled Boris, and shifted his weight just enough to tip John's balance off.

There was a horribly long moment where John flailed in mid-air, grasping out for a handhold that didn't exist, then he was gone.

“No!” Sherlock heard himself shout and rushed forward. Boris turned in surprise but not fast enough, and Sherlock caught him with what ordinarily would have been an extremely satisfying punch, knocking him out with one blow. Right now it barely even registered as more than a necessary removal of an obstacle as he fell to his knees on the roof edge. There was nothing but a blank white noise in his brain, no room for thought when his whole being was filled with sickening horror, a terrifying absence-of-John that he had never realised could be so devastating.

For a moment he couldn't look, eyes fixed on the gritty concrete of the roof in front of him as his body refused to move enough to glance over the edge, but he had to see, had to _know_ , even if John's broken body sprawled out so far below him was the very last sight he'd ever want to see.

When he did finally bring himself to look, he was greeted by the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. There was a small balcony on the flat below them and it had broken John's fall, catching him before he'd gone more than a few feet. All the air rushed out of Sherlock's lungs with relief and the echoing silence that had flooded his brain was shattered.

 _I nearly lost him,_ collided with the swift calculation of how far John had fallen and at what angle, and therefore what the likelihood of injury was. Part of his brain was noting just how many other balconies there were along this stretch of wall (three), how long they each were (roughly five metres), how long the wall was (forty metres) and therefore what the chances were that John had been killed after all (sixty-two point five percent, but that didn't factor in him landing at an awkward angle and breaking his back, or hitting his head, or landing half on a balcony wall and falling anyway, or a thousand other variables) and he just wanted to turn it all off again, because it wasn't important, it didn't matter, John was _alive_.

John groaned and twitched his limbs. None of them seemed broken, but Sherlock wanted to jump down to him and get his hands on him just to make sure he really, truly was okay. That seemed a little overly dramatic, though. And besides, John was likely to need a hand up when he finally got his breath back.

“John,” he called in a voice that could not have sounded less like his own. “Are you okay?”

John held up one shaky hand, his thumb and forefinger curled into a circle. “Great,” he said in a dazed voice. “Just great.” He took a couple of hoarse breaths. “Might need a minute to recover before the next chase, though.”

Sherlock found himself awash with a simple feeling of joy at the world, something he wasn't very used to. John was alive, apparently unharmed and making weak jokes, and it was the most amazing thing ever. “That's fine,” he said. “We've got to wait for Lestrade anyway, and you know how he dilly-dallies.”

“Excellent,” said John, still not moving to sit up. “I'll just catch a nap here, then.”

Sherlock settled down properly on the edge of the roof, letting his legs swing down above John's balcony.

“Sounds like an excellent plan,” he said. “Although the owner of the balcony might object.”

John raised his head just enough to squint through the balcony doors. “Pretty sure there's no one home,” he said. “I'd imagine they'd have come to investigate a man falling from the sky.”

“Probably,” agreed Sherlock, perfectly content to just sit for a bit and watch John. How had he not realised what a luxury it was to have access to the sights and sounds of John being alive at all times? It was amazing.

By the time Lestrade and his people arrived, Sherlock had secured Boris with a pair of 'borrowed' handcuffs that he'd happened to have in his pocket, and was helping John back up.

“Jesus,” Lestrade said, looking down at John as he pulled himself up the last bit and collapsed onto the roof with a groan. “What were you doing down there?”

“I thought I'd try flying,” said John. “It's really not all it's cut out to be, you know.”

Sherlock ignored them both in favour of checking John over now that he was close enough to touch. “You're not hurt?” he demanded.

“I'm fine,” said John. “Just bruises. They'll be bloody impressive ones by tomorrow, but just bruises.”

Sherlock nodded and put a hand on his shoulder, curling his fingers around his neck. “I'm glad,” he said, which was inadequate, but all he had.

John gave him a smile and took hold of his upper arm, squeezing it gently. “I know,” he said.

There was a quiet moment where Sherlock just took in the sight and feel of John being alive, then Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly.

“As touching as this is, if no one's going to the hospital then we're going to need you to come back to the Yard to give statements.”

“Of course,” said John, pulling away from Sherlock. Sherlock allowed him to move away, but caught at his hand before he could get too far. He wasn't quite ready to let him go completely yet.

 

****

 

Sherlock spent the trip to the Yard studying John, committing all the tiny details of his existence to memory for the hundredth time. The way his hair fell around his ear, the precise curve of the lines around his eyes, the self-effacing way he smiled when he caught Sherlock staring. It was absurd how that handful of seconds when he thought he'd lost him had completely wiped away all the anger and hurt of the previous night, but he couldn't deny that it had. Time to move on from the useless emotional reaction to John's actions and concentrate on the reasons behind them, and the best way to prevent such a thing ever happening again.

Sherlock had known that John wouldn't be able to maintain their current celibate arrangement forever, but he'd misjudged how dependent he was going to become on him, and that had been an error. He should have been prepared, formed some kind of a contingency plan in order to keep John sexually satisfied without involving other people.

Well, he'd just have to come up with a plan now.

Lestrade took them into his office, where John sat down gingerly. “My back is going to be one giant bruise tomorrow,” he said mournfully.

Sherlock thought about the patterns that were likely to form by the fall John had taken, his mind already picturing the spray of colour blooming on John's skin. He'd have to make sure he got to see that.

“How about some tea?” offered Donovan. The police hadn't been there when John had fallen, hadn't had to suffer through that eternal few seconds when it had seemed impossible that he'd still be alive, but they all liked John – well, everyone liked John – and it had been clear when they'd arrived just how close he had come to death. They'd all been a bit careful towards him at the scene, and now he was being offered tea. Sherlock thought that he should probably be satisfied that they seemed to at least partially understand John's worth, but it was rather drowned out by his irritation that they were flocking around his John in such a distracting manner.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” said John with a grateful smile. Sherlock scowled to himself at the tone of his voice for a moment and then his mind flashed to Donovan's usual attempts at a cup of decent tea. They were usually as weak and insipid as her choice in sexual partners. Correctly-made tea was very important to John – if he was presented with one of Donovan's cups of tea-scented hot water, it was going to make him feel worse, not better.

“I'll make it,” he said abruptly, pulling away from John for the first time since he'd hauled him up onto the roof. He fixed Donovan with a glare. “You'll do it wrong.”

He swept out of the office, ignoring the surprised looks that followed him and already thinking ahead to the task of making a John-worthy cup of tea in the miserable excuse for a staff room that Lestrade's command was saddled with.

 

****

  


****

 

Sherlock's pronouncement that he was going to make the tea, followed by his sudden exit, left a shocked silence in his wake.

“Did that really just happen?” asked Donovan after a moment. “I've never known him to ever make tea before.”

Lestrade gave John an impressed look. “What have you done to him?”

John gave an awkward shrug. “Nothing,” he said, knowing just how feeble it sounded. The truth was that he was even more taken aback than anyone else. He'd spent most of the day terrified that he'd managed to destroy his relationship with Sherlock completely, going through the dull routines of his life with a sinking feeling in his stomach at the unshakeable thought that this was all he'd ever have from now on. Sherlock had been treating him in exactly the same manner that he did almost everyone else for the first time – ignoring him unless it was absolutely necessary for him to communicate – and it had felt like the end of everything.

If he'd known that all it would take to get it back was a tumble off a roof, well- Well, okay, he still would have tried to avoid it. He'd seen Sherlock's face the instant before he'd fallen, seen the sheer naked terror that had been running through his veins reflected back at him, and nothing was worth that. He'd genuinely thought that was he was about to die, that they'd wasted all the time they were going to get with stupid arguments about sex – as if that was even a little bit important when compared to just being with Sherlock; getting to see his face when he was relaxed and content just to sit close to John.

“First the pub, now tea,” mused Lestrade, rummaging through the stacks of paper on his desk for a blank witness statement form. “What's going to be next? Compliments on our intelligence?”

John was filling in the form by the time Sherlock came back, trying to decide what to put down for his job – doctor, or maniac detective's dogsbody. He'd just decided that doctor probably sounded better even if it felt less truthful when Sherlock entered, carefully carrying a cup in his hands which he presented to John.

“You know,” said Donovan, “when I was going to make tea, I was going to make it for everyone.”

“No one's stopping you from torturing Lestrade with your pisswater,” said Sherlock, throwing himself into a chair. Drinking something that Sherlock had prepared could well be the stupidest idea that John had ever had, but he could tell from the weight of Sherlock's intent gaze that this was important to him.

He took a cautious sip. “This is really good,” he said, surprised. It was still a bit hot, but apart from that it was exactly right – just how he'd have made it for himself. When had Sherlock bothered to commit the way he drank tea to memory?

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It's tea,” he said. “Not exactly rocket science. Which, by the way, is easy, I don't know why people use it as an example.”

“Yes, can't imagine why the precise science behind whether or not a metal tube the size of a building sitting on thousands of tons of liquid oxygen and hydrogen blows up or is blasted to the moon should be counted as at all difficult,” said Lestrade, holding out a witness statement form to Sherlock. “You need to do one too, you know.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, but took the form with a glare.

“The sooner you do it,” Donovan pointed out, “the sooner you can take your doctor home.” She waggled her eyebrows in a way that was probably meant to be suggestive and Sherlock gave her a cold stare.

“Perhaps if I wasn't distracted by having to share a room with your mediocrity, I'd be able to get on with it,” he said.

She bristled and John quickly stepped in before she could respond. “It will be good to slump on the sofa with some painkillers,” he said.

Sherlock's gaze transferred to him, and he frowned. “You should have gone to hospital.”

“I'm fine,” said John. “Doctor, remember? I know when I need a hospital and when I just need rest and some pills.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise. “Everyone knows you shouldn't trust a doctor with his own care,” he muttered, but he let it go in favour of starting on his statement.

He spent a lot less time than he usually did expounding on his own brilliance and insulting the police, which John was grateful for. His back really was aching, and he was starting to think about getting to settle on the sofa for the night longingly.

 

****

 

When he finally did get to sit down on the sofa, he couldn't stop himself letting out a sigh of relief. Sherlock stood and regarded him with a faint frown for a moment, then disappeared and came back with the bottle of painkillers.

John took them gratefully and dry-swallowed a couple before settling back properly, wincing as he tried to find a position that didn't put pressure on his bruises. Sherlock was still hovering when he'd finally found one and John looked up at him for a few minutes, noting his tense shoulders and hard-set mouth. Ah, yes, they were technically still fighting, even if John's injury had temporarily pushed the importance of it to one side.

“Sherlock,” he started. Hopefully this was his chance to have his say without Sherlock shutting him down immediately, but working out precisely how to say what he'd spent all day thinking about was another matter entirely. Well, best to start with the basics. “I'm sorry about last night. You were right – just because nothing happened, doesn't mean that it wasn't out of line.”

Sherlock continued to just stare at him, and John started to worry that an apology wasn't going to be enough, that he'd ruined things completely. “It won't happen again,” he added.

That seemed to shake Sherlock out of his reverie. “Of course it won't,” he said, as if the very idea was ridiculous. He sat down on the couch, somehow managing to look as if he was throwing himself down while simultaneously being careful enough not to jog John's back.

Did that mean 'of course not because I trust you not to make the same mistake twice' or 'of course not because we're over, and any women you talk to now are your own affair'? “What-,” started John, but before he could ask, Sherlock held up a hand.

“Be quiet, I'm thinking,” he said.

Oh, great. John let out a slow, frustrated breath while Sherlock sat and seemingly stared at nothing for a couple of moments, then nodded to himself and focussed back on John. “This sex thing is a problem,” he announced. “The current situation isn't working.”

John felt a sick feeling rise up in his stomach. “It just needs a bit more time,” he said, desperation making his voice begin to verge on frantic. “We can make this work – I can work out how to ignore it better.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, you can't. That's become clear, and you shouldn't have to, anyway. It's part of who you are.”

“We don't have to break up over it,” said John, sitting up to reach out for Sherlock's arm, ignoring the screaming pain that the movement caused in his back.

Sherlock stared at him as if he was insane for a split-second, then frowned. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “Of course we're not breaking up – you're the most important thing in my life, why would I let that go? You're being an idiot, John.”

John blinked. How like Sherlock to declare something like that and then immediately follow it up with an insult. He relaxed, a smile finding its way on to his face.

“Oh, well, good,” he managed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put his hand over John's where it was still holding onto his arm, gently prying his fingers loose so that he could hold them instead.

“I'm merely suggesting that we find another way to deal with your libido,” he said. “I think we can both agree that trying to pretend it doesn't exist isn't working.” He paused, narrowing his eyes and staring at John as if he were a particularly tricky problem. “You said the other day that you wanted to touch me and bring me pleasure, rather than just 'get off'.”

“Yes,” agreed John, “but I know you don't like that. I don't want to do anything you don't want, Sherlock. I think you're worrying about this too much.”

“No,” said Sherlock with more force than John was expecting. “You're not worrying enough – analyse the events of the last twenty-four hours, and then extrapolate from the data – even going just six months into the future, it's clear we need to deal with this now.” His tone and words were harsh, but the grip he still had on John's hand was tight enough to convey how much he really cared about this.

“Okay, okay,” said John, sighing and rubbing at his face with his free hand. His back was aching and he really didn't want to have to deal with this right now, but Sherlock was probably right. If they put it off, it was only going to get worse. “Well, then, you're right. Part of it is definitely sexual frustration, but it's also that I want to be able to touch you like that. I know you'd hate it, but it's hard to get that message across to- my libido, or my sub-conscious, or whatever.”

“Right,” said Sherlock. He frowned with concentration and ducked his head, staring blankly at their joined hands. “Your touch does cause me pleasure, you know,” he said.

John sighed. “It's not the same,” he said. How was he meant to explain how much he wanted to run his hand down Sherlock's body and get arousal in response, and not faint unease?

Sherlock nodded absently. He was still thinking, his brain almost visibly ticking along at his fastest solve-this-now pace, and John wondered if treating their relationship like a case was a good sign or a bad sign. Well, Sherlock did always manage to solve cases, in the end, which was a much better record than he had with coping with emotional conundrums. Maybe it was the best way to go about it.

“You hate cooking,” Sherlock said, apparently out-of-nowhere.

John stared at him. “What?” he asked. Maybe trying to use logic on a relationship wasn't such a good idea after all.

Sherlock gave him his 'keep up, imbecile,' glare. “You find it tedious and irritating, and you hate the mess it causes and the time it takes that you could be spending on other things.”

That was all true – not that John had ever mentioned it to Sherlock, but he'd really be as stupid as Sherlock occasionally accused him of being if he hadn't got used to Sherlock knowing all kinds of tiny details about him without being told by now. “Right,” he acknowledged. “Sorry, how is that related?”

“You still do it,” Sherlock pointed out. “Not as often as someone who likes it, of course, and it's usually pretty easy to persuade you to get takeaway instead, unless you're worried about our finances, but you do cook reasonably often. Because you like the part that comes after – where you have a plate of food and get to eat it.”

“Most people do like eating, yes,” said John, still lost. “Is this you pointing out just how many 'dull' human needs you don't feel the urge to bother with, because I'm pretty sure malnutrition is a bit different from celibacy.”

“No, it's an analogy,” corrected Sherlock. “I don't like sex, but I do like the part that comes afterwards. That period where you're all relaxed and affectionate, and I can get close to you without you getting all worked up about it. That gives me pleasure, and it's because you're touching me.”

Oh, of course John should have got all that from a reference to his cooking habits. “I don't quite think it's the same,” he said. “And it's definitely not the same as having to cook before you can eat.”

“It's the same to me,” said Sherlock. “Something messy, tedious and time-consuming before you can get to what makes it worthwhile.”

John raised an amused eyebrow. “I thought only girls were meant to like cuddling that much.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There's no need to propagate stereotypes,” he said. “Besides, we both know you like it as well.”

“Yeah, okay,” John acknowledged. “But you still get that now, you just have to wait for me to masturbate.”

“It's not the same,” said Sherlock. “You're always still a bit tense – you never relax as completely as you did after we had sex. It doesn't seem to work quite the same.”

Probably because John was always horribly aware of what he'd just done and how Sherlock felt about it. There always seemed to be an air of faint disgust and a sense that John was just being weak, although John could never tell if that was what Sherlock was really thinking, or if it was just John's paranoia.

“I'd be even more tense if you were only having sex with me because you wanted to cuddle, and I knew you hated it,” he said with conviction.

“I don't mind,” said Sherlock. “If it means-”

“No,” John cut him off. Time to nip this idea in the bud before Sherlock took it too far. “I don't want that – I couldn't do it. How could you think that I would? When I cook, it's not as if the- I don't know, the pots and pans are being forced to go against what they'd normally want to do.” He frowned. It was possible he was over-stretching that analogy. “I can't imagine I'd be able to do it apart from anything else. How am I meant to keep an erection if you're just suffering through it to get to the next bit?”

Sherlock looked as if he hadn't thought of that. “Then we need to find a middle ground,” he said after a moment. “Something that means you're not tense and frustrated all the time, and I'm not having to go against my nature.”

John let out a long sigh and shut his eyes for a moment. “Can it wait?” he asked. It had been a long day spent kaleidoscoping between anger and guilt even before he'd managed to fall off a block of flats, and having to face an emotional conversation at the end of it was just a bit too much. “I'd really just like some dinner, and maybe an early night.”

Sherlock gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Of course,” he said. He glanced up at the clock, then sprang up off the sofa. “Speedy's will still be open. I'll get you a panini.”

He rushed out without waiting for a response, leaving John to call, “And something for yourself as well. I meant what I said about malnutrition!”

There was no response and John sat back with a sigh, looking at the clock himself. It wasn't as late as it felt, but that didn't make him any less exhausted. He thought about trying to find the remote and putting the telly on, but it seemed like a lot of effort. Instead, he rested his head back against the sofa and shut his eyes for a moment. Just until Sherlock got back.

 

****

 

When he woke up, Sherlock was perched in his chair with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees. John blinked a few times, taking in the time and realising that he'd been asleep for nearly two hours. How had that happened?

There was a Speedy's bag on the coffee table. John squinted at it for a moment, then tried to sit up. His back shrieked a reminder of his earlier fall and he let out a pained noise that made Sherlock look up.

“You should avoid straining those muscles,” he said.

“No, really?” replied John with sarcasm, sitting up with more care and reaching for the bag. It would be stone cold by now, of course, but as long as it was food, he didn't really care. He was starving. “Did you eat?” he asked once he'd taken enough bites to convince his stomach that he was doing something about its complaints.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “Yes, doctor,” he said, over-emphasising the title. “No need to fuss. I even managed one of my five-a-day.”

“I'm very proud,” John said in a dry voice. “That brings you up to, what? One this week?”

“Two,” corrected Sherlock. “I had an apple turnover on Wednesday.”

John snorted. “Pretty sure that doesn't count,” he said, but let the argument go. Bothering Sherlock about his eating habits was largely a waste of time and he wasn't really in the mood for it right now.

Sherlock had barely looked up from his laptop since John had woken up, but it was only now that they'd fallen silent that John realised that there was noise coming from its speakers. Something turned down very low - no doubt to avoid disturbing John's sleep – something that mixed faint, cheesy-sounding music and a variety of odd noises, noises that sounded a lot like- Oh.

“Are you watching porn?!” John asked incredulously.

“It's research,” said Sherlock. “I'm formulating a plan for us.”

John groaned. “Please tell me it doesn't involve an enormous moustache and dodgy '70s music.”

Sherlock glanced up long enough to frown at him. “Of course not,” he said. “Why would it?” His puzzled look morphed into thoughtful contemplation. “Although, a moustache might well suit you.” He tipped his head to one side, as if visualising it.

“Oh no,” said John holding his hands up as if to shield himself from the mental image that Sherlock was creating. He'd tried to grow a moustache when he was seventeen and there was no way he was going through that again. “Facial hair is never a good idea.”

Sherlock looked briefly disappointed, then turned back to the porn. “Your objection to my involvement in a sexual act is that I wouldn't be enjoying it, correct?” he said.

“Yes,” agreed John, turning back to his panini rather than watching Sherlock's face morph between his concentrating-on-research expression and his disgusted-by-humanity one. He should have known that once Sherlock had latched onto a problem that needed solving he wouldn't let it go.

“Well, there are a number of things that I enjoy, or at least don't mind, that are included in these videos,” he said. “I think it's firmly established by now that I enjoy kissing you, and touching you. I've never given much thought to watching you pleasure yourself, but I can see no reason why I should find it unpleasant – I've found that I enjoy observing you doing almost anything.”

“You want to watch me masturbate?” asked John incredulously.

“The present situation is that we kiss until you become aroused, then you run off to deal with it, which we both find annoying,” said Sherlock, finally putting the laptop on the table and turning to give John his full attention, although he left the porn playing away to itself. The soundtrack added even more surreality to an already odd conversation. “I am suggesting that rather than stopping our activities at that point, you merely carry things on to their logical conclusion.”

John thought about that for a moment. The of idea of masturbating while Sherlock was watching him and no doubt deducing all kinds of things from every tiny movement he made, probably should have felt weird, but it actually sent a tiny thrill through him. There was no feeling quite like having Sherlock's full attention turned on him, after all, and anything was better than a lonely wank in the bathroom.

“You wouldn't find that unpleasant?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I won't know for sure until we try it,” he said, “but I see no reason why I should. As long as I don't have to be involved, why would it affect me?” He sat forward. “You'll try it then?”

John thought it over for a moment, then nodded. “As long as you promise to tell me if you want to stop at any time,” he said.

Sherlock gave him a pleased smile. “Of course,” he said. “And you have to tell me if you don't think it's going to be enough – we both have to be completely honest, or the data will be useless.”

John let out a half-laugh. “Of course it's an experiment,” he said, rolling his eyes. That alone would probably skew the data – Sherlock was far more likely to enjoy something if he thought it was for science.

“Everything's an experiment,” said Sherlock as if John should already have known that. He moved off his chair and onto the sofa next to John in one quick move, one hand clinging to John's thigh just too tightly. “This thing with you,” he continued in a low voice, “this has been the best experiment of them all.”

That sent a warm surge through John that made his voice waver as he replied. “Even though nothing has blown up or caught on fire?”

“Nothing has blown up or caught on fire yet,” corrected Sherlock and smiled in a disconcerting manner. John told himself that he was just joking, and that he didn't have to worry about pyromaniac tendencies on top of everything else. “I would really like to kiss you, John,” said Sherlock with a tense edge to his voice.

John could only give one response to that. He reached out and pulled Sherlock in until he was close enough to kiss. Sherlock's mouth was hot against his and he ran one hand up to cup the back of John's neck and hold him in place.

“We trying this now then?” asked John once Sherlock had given him a moment to breathe.

“I don't mind,” said Sherlock in a rough voice. “I don't care. I just- you fell off a _roof_ , John. What were you thinking? You can't do things like that.”

 _Oh_ , thought John as Sherlock pushed him back against the arm of the sofa, his lips pressed firmly against John's. This wasn't about Sherlock starting in on a new experiment as soon as he could; this was about him proving to himself that John was still with him. John gripped Sherlock's shoulders, trying to give as good as he was getting, concentrating so hard on reassuring Sherlock that he was in one piece with just his mouth that he almost didn't notice when Sherlock pulled his shirt open and slid a hand inside, resting it just over his heart.

“I'm fine,” he said, putting one of his own hands over Sherlock's. “I'm fine, Sherlock.”

“I know that,” said Sherlock and kissed him again as if just to get him to shut up. John gave up and let him.

It didn't take too long for Sherlock to have the rest of his shirt buttons undone. He regarded John's chest for a moment, one hand tracing down the line of his breastbone, then bent down and licked up John's neck. John let out a surprised breath, his head falling back almost automatically to give Sherlock as much access as possible.

“I like how you taste,” said Sherlock, and if John hadn't already been hard, then the deep tone of his voice would have been enough on its own. If this time wasn't going to be the experiment, he was going to have to excuse himself to the bathroom a lot sooner than was normal. He really didn't want to have to move though, not while Sherlock's mouth was running over his neck, sucking and licking all the way down to his collarbone.

“You taste different here,” said Sherlock, pausing to lick at the hollow of John's throat, “to how you taste here.” He applied his tongue to the tendon under John's ear. “How do you do that?”

John let out a breath that was equal parts amused and aroused. “I don't really have any control over that,” he pointed out.

Sherlock made a disapproving sound, as if John's ignorance had disappointed him, then turned his attention to John's shoulders. John tensed as Sherlock's mouth found its way to the bullet scar on his shoulder, but Sherlock didn't pause in his investigation. He ran his tongue across it lightly, almost gently, then traced the edges as if to gauge its exact dimensions. John could feel himself growing harder with touch, every exploratory press of Sherlock's tongue, and he couldn't restrain the groan that pulled itself from him.

Sherlock did pause then, but only to make a satisfied noise in his throat before continuing. John grasped onto his shirt, letting himself just lie back and give in to the sensations running through him, and that was when he realised what this was like. It was just like the first time they'd been together – the one time they'd actually had sex, when Sherlock had pored over his body, drawing conclusions from every tiny mark.

He suddenly realised that Sherlock must have been holding off from investigating John as thoroughly as he wanted to in order to prevent turning John on too much. Now that they had made a new compromise, he was free to do as he wished, because now the object was to turn John on and get it out of the way.

John immediately felt better. This wasn't just about his sex drive and the problems it was causing, it was about what Sherlock wanted as well. Which was apparently to catalogue the precise flavour of each part of John's body, and who was John to deny him that?

Sherlock's mouth got as far as the sparse hair on John's chest, then he sat back with a dissatisfied look on his face. John took the opportunity to pull his head back up so that he could kiss him, one hand tangling on Sherlock's hair. He was achingly hard now and beginning to lose the edges of his concentration. He couldn't stop himself from thrusting his hips up against Sherlock, and Sherlock flinched and moved away from the press of his erection.

“Sorry,” muttered John. “Sorry, I didn't mean to do that.”

“It's all right,” said Sherlock, moving back.

John paused and looked at him, trying to see in to what he was really thinking. “Is it?” he said. “Really? You promised you'd say if it wasn't,” he reminded Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated, then rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, as if John was being ridiculously petty. He knelt all the way up and grabbed a cushion from behind him which he put over John's crotch before moving back into position, the cushion caught between their bodies. “Better,” he announced.

John didn't know whether to laugh or feel like a dog that had to be kept from humping the furniture. “Great,” he said. “You know how sexy I find cushions.”

“I can get the Union Jack one instead,” Sherlock offered. “Soldiers are meant to feel strongly about queen and country, aren't they?”

John made a face. “Please never mention the Queen in that context again,” he said.

Sherlock just grinned and bent down to kiss him again. His weight pressed against the cushion in an interesting way that made John lose his train of thought entirely, lost in the press of Sherlock's body and the feel of his mouth.

John felt like he was finally able to relax entirely, no need to try and keep a rein on his libido, or worry about what Sherlock thought of him whenever he lost control enough to press upwards against the cushion or let out a low moan. It was liberating in a way that made John realise just how much a stranglehold he'd been keeping on himself. Now that he knew that Sherlock wasn't about to declare the whole thing a disgusting waste of time and flounce off to his room, John was able to give himself wholly over to the moment, running his hands up and down Sherlock's back so that he could feel the flex of his muscles and concentrating on just kissing Sherlock without fear of what might come after.

They lay there for a lot longer than John usually managed before needing to escape. His arousal was building, but there was no urgency to it, not with Sherlock pressed warm and close, only the cushion separating them. That felt like an almost welcome intrusion now, because it meant that John was able to press his hardening cock against it and not feel a flinch from Sherlock in response.

They probably could have stayed there for the whole night, but eventually Sherlock pulled back, looking down at John's face with a serious look. “This is pleasant,” he said.

“Yeah,” managed John in response, his fingers still clutching at the smooth cotton of Sherlock's shirt.

“However,” continued Sherlock as if he hadn't spoken, “it is not providing the data we need.”

“Right,” said John, nodding dumbly. Most of his brain was occupied elsewhere, was he really meant to be able to think about data right now?

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look as if he could tell just how much of John's mind was concentrating on what he was saying compared to how his body felt right now.

“I have noticed that you find me aesthetically pleasing,” he started.

“You're gorgeous,” said John without any input from his brain, then winced internally. Was 'gorgeous' something a bloke like Sherlock wanted to hear? Probably not.

Sherlock gave him a pleased smile, and John revised his opinion. Apparently Sherlock was just as sensitive to compliments on his appearance as he was to ones about his intelligence. John made a mental note to work some into everyday conversation.

“Well then,” Sherlock continued, “it follows that the removal of my shirt would facilitate matters.”

Why did he insist on using such long words when John's brain was running at half-capacity? It took a moment for what he meant to sink in and then John nodded urgently and changed his grip on Sherlock's shirt to one that pulled it away from him.

“Yes,” he agreed fervently. “Excellent idea, yet more proof that you're a genius, get it off.”

Sherlock's smile became smug and he sat back further in order to undo his buttons. John wasn't sure if it was meant to be a show, but something about the way Sherlock carefully undid each one and his cuffs before sliding the shirt off was more erotic than any stripshow he'd ever seen. He couldn't restrain a faint groan when the shirt was finally discarded.

He ran a hand over Sherlock's collarbone and down his chest. “Definitely aesthetically pleasing,” he said, and then, because he couldn't resist, “Too skinny, though. You really should eat more.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I eat as much as is necessary,” he said, then turned his attention to ridding John of his shirt completely. “Right,” he said with purpose, and moved back down to cover John's body with his own, their bare chests rubbing together and making John suck in a breath. Sherlock kissed him again, settling back down into their former position, but now there was all the expanse of his skin for John's hands to explore.

He didn't really know how much he was allowed to touch before Sherlock got uncomfortable, so he usually played it safe and kept to his shoulders and upper body, at least until he was so turned on that he lost track of what he was doing. Tonight was all about collecting data, though, and Sherlock had promised to say when he got uncomfortable. John let one hand trail down Sherlock's spine hesitantly.

Sherlock pulled back for a moment. “You can touch,” he said in a low voice that sent another thrum of lust through John. “I like your hands.”

“Right,” said John breathlessly.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. “Above the waist, though,” he clarified.

John nodded and let his hands press against Sherlock's smooth skin with more purpose, running over the curve of his waist and then back up to his shoulders. Sherlock didn't resume their kiss, staying where he was for a moment and staring down at John intently, clearly chronicling everything that passed over John's face. Being the centre of that much interest, especially from someone like Sherlock, sent John's arousal spiking up even further, and then Sherlock bent his head to his neck again, licking up over his Adam's apple.

“This is definitely my favourite taste,” he said, and John's hips thrust mindlessly up against the cushion again.

Sherlock backed off and John let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm himself. He looked up at Sherlock, wondering how to explain that he was reaching the point of arousal where he was going to have to do something, even if it was only to escape to another room.

Before he could, though, Sherlock spoke again. “J’aimerais bien qu'on s’enlace maintenant,” he said, and the slide of foreign sounds over his tongue was enough to make John groan.

“Not fair to do that,” he said and his voice came out ragged and hoarse.

“I thought everything was meant to be fair in love and war,” remarked Sherlock. He sat back completely, pulling away from John's clutching fingers and resting against the opposite arm of the sofa. “Finissons-en,” he added, and John noted absently to himself that he could be saying just about anything, as long as he kept his tone so intense and seductive it was always going to send a thrill of pleasure through John's system.

He took a deep breath and pulled himself into a more upright position, reaching down to adjust his erection automatically before realising what he was doing and froze awkwardly.

“That's rather the point of this,” Sherlock pointed out, reaching out to remove the cushion and drop it on the floor. John suddenly felt incredibly exposed, and he wondered how this was ever going to work. Sherlock was just sitting there, watching, and it was more than a little off-putting.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “Come on, John,” he encouraged, letting his voice dip low again. “Ne me fais pas penser à trop de choses à dire pendant que tu es dans un tel état.”

John fumbled a bit as he undid his flies and was unable to suppress a faint moan as he finally got his hand around his aching erection. He'd been hard for too long and his hand started moving in a regular motion without much prompting from his brain, but the weight of Sherlock's gaze was still on him and he shut his eyes to block it out, not wanting to look up and see any sign of judgement in it.

“Et si je te touchais, ça t’aiderait?,” said Sherlock and the sound of his voice, intruding on what John had become accustomed to being a private act, made his breath catch in his throat and his hand speed up. A moment later, Sherlock's hand crept onto his ankle, sliding beneath his trouser leg and brushing over his skin with gentle fingers, and John had to suppress another lust-filled sound.

“Don't hide any of this from me,” said Sherlock. “I want to be able to catalogue it all.”

The idea of being catalogued turned out to be another turn-on that John hadn't known he had, and he dimly wondered if he should be worried about what all this said about him, but at the moment there was too much heat rushing through him. Arousal began to pool in the base of his stomach as Sherlock's touch crept further up his leg and then down over his foot, peeling off his sock before his thumbs rubbed into his sole with enough pressure to send a lightning bolt of sensation up his leg and directly to his groin.

“Ton visage s’est quelque peu empourpré d’une façon surprenante,” said Sherlock, and John could feel the words burning through him, as intimate as a real caress. “Je m’attendais à voir un visage rouge comme si tu venais de courir mais en fait c’est beaucoup plus marbré.”

“Sherlock,” John was unable to stop himself from gasping, “Shit, Sherlock.”

“You're close,” said Sherlock with interest, and then his hand froze mid-stroke on his foot. “You're going to make a mess,” he said, as if realising that was an obligatory part of the process for the first time. “I hadn't planned for that. Stupid, stupid.” He shifted, clearly intending to get up. “Stop, John, and wait while I-”

John let out an amused, breathless laugh. There was definite proof that Sherlock wasn't lying when he said he didn't do this himself. “Bit too late for that,” he managed to bite out. He fumbled one-handedly on the floor for his shirt and Sherlock relaxed.

“We'll plan better next time,” he said, and that alone, the thought that there would be a next time, was enough to put John right on the very edge, every nerve taut as he worked himself up to the point where he'd tumble over the precipice. Just needed something more, one little push, one tiny extra-

“Car sinon, c’est probable que tu finirais par prendre ma chemise plutôt que la tienne, et ça serait dégoûtant,” said Sherlock, both hands cradling his foot while his fingers stroked over his ankle, and that was it, just the push John had needed – the reminder that Sherlock was here, with him, participating as much as he could. He stared up at Sherlock's face as he came, gasping and shaking apart, taking in Sherlock's intense, concentrated stare and the complete lack of any sign of revulsion or discomfort on his face. There was nothing but over-heated lust running through John's body, none of his usual sense of shame and embarrassment, and he couldn't hold back a choked-out, hoarse cry of Sherlock's name.

There was a few, beautiful moments of nothing but fulfilled contentment and when he came back to himself, Sherlock was still there, staring at his face with a curious look.

“I think I like that look on you,” he said thoughtfully. The only response John could manage was a foolish smile. “Hurry up and clean off so I can lie down again,” added Sherlock.

John wiped at himself with the shirt that he was still clutching in his hand, then dumped it back on the floor and carefully tucked his cock away, doing his flies back up. The moment he was done, Sherlock moved to cover his body, collapsing down as if John was nothing more than a mattress. There was a protracted period of him fidgeting and prodding John into precisely the position he wanted, then his limbs relaxed all at once, with a suddenness that was like a marionette having its strings cut.

They lay like that for a while, John allowing his body to recover from the force of his orgasm while Sherlock pressed his face into John's neck and occasionally hummed quietly to himself.

“Exactly right,” he said eventually. “You're properly relaxed now.”

John tightened his grip around Sherlock's body for a moment in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he said, which was pretty much all he could manage right now. He was floating in a warm haze of affection and general gratitude, which he imagined would only last until Sherlock's next property-destroying experiment, but that was long enough, really. He couldn't imagine wanting to be anywhere else, with anyone else, even if that would have got him a 'proper' shag.

“I am sorry about last night,” he said. “It was a horrible mistake – I'd have been miserable if anything had happened.”

“So would I,” said Sherlock, then he shifted up onto one elbow so that he could meet John's eyes. John let his eyes flicker over the familiar lines of Sherlock's face and thought to himself that he was perfectly content to be looking at it for the rest of his life. It was possible that finally having a decent orgasm had blown something in his brain, making him rather over-sentimental. He hoped that it wasn't going to be permanent. Might get a bit embarrassing at crime scenes – it was bad enough that he couldn't control his awe at Sherlock's genius.

“I think we can count this as a successful experiment,” said Sherlock. “Certainly the look on your face seems to point that way. Either that, or you've suffered brain damage in the last few minutes without me noticing.”

John tried to make his smile less idiotic and failed. “Sorry,” he said instead.

Sherlock's face lit up with his own, answering smile. “Actually, I think I rather like it,” he said, and bent down to press a gentle kiss against John's mouth.

John wasn't willing to let him go with only one and for a few minutes they traded lazy kisses, John curling one hand into Sherlock's hair to keep him close. He rather thought he could see Sherlock's point about the post-coital part being the best part.

“It wasn't too much?” he asked eventually. “You weren't uncomfortable at all?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I promised I'd say if I was,” he reminded John. “No, that was fine. Rather interesting, actually. It provided me with some data about you that I was previously lacking.” He brushed his fingers over John's hair, pausing to rub a strand between his fingers, as if testing the texture. John took the chance to kiss him again.

“Very satisfactory,” said Sherlock once they'd managed to pull apart again. “I knew I'd be able to find a solution.”

His obvious self-satisfaction made John laugh quietly. “I suppose we'll be doing it again, then,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. “Of course,” he said.

Well, that was good. John's smile grew wider, and Sherlock kissed him again. John gave up on conversation and let Sherlock kiss him as much as he wanted. After all, there were no constraints, nowhere else they had to be but lying together in each other's arms.

 

****

 

John had thought ahead and insisted on meeting Harry in a coffee shop this time. It was the kind of ridiculously pretentious place where a coffee cost more than a beer would have in Wetherspoon's and came in 15 different varieties, none of which were actually called 'coffee' on the menu, but at least Harry would have to get a non-alcoholic drink for once.

He had to wait for her again, but that was just par for the course. He took out his phone and opened up a blank text message, then stared at it for a while, trying to think of something to send to Sherlock just to pass the time. Well, it was that or try to avoid the glares that the assistant was giving him. He might have made a bit of scene when trying to order his drink but really, it was their own fault for attempting to mess with a man's tea just because he didn't know the secret code for 'just tea with a dash of milk, for god's sake.' He'd ended up with coffee, mainly out of frustration.

 _Why would anyone adulterate tea with vanilla?_ he sent in the end.

Once Sherlock had proven himself perfectly capable of making a decent cup of tea, John had become significantly less tolerant of his attempts to always get John to make it at home. It didn't always work, but John had managed to turn the tables on him enough times now to know that when Sherlock made tea, he was even more finicky about the way it was prepared than John was. And it was always precisely as John would have wanted it, even if Sherlock had to rush out to get the right milk, or ransack the whole of Barts for a mug he deemed acceptable.

The reply came through only moments later. _No idea. Some kind of psychological experiment? SH._

“I take it from that smile that things with the Ken doll are still going well then,” said Harry, sinking into the chair opposite John.

“Don't call him that,” said John, tucking his phone away and thinking that it probably didn't bode well that he was already irritated.

Harry rolled her eyes theatrically. “Just a joke,” she said. “Try not to be so serious all the time.” She looked good today – the edge of obvious drunkenness was missing, but John wasn't ready to trust that. Harry had had years of practice at acting sober, after all.

“Not a very funny joke,” was all he said in reply, before he let it go. “How have you been?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder dismissively. “Same as always,” she said. “Work's driving me nuts, but I suppose it's that time of year where everyone goes a bit manic. What about you? Taken down any international criminal masterminds lately?”

“Nothing more exciting than an illegal bare-knuckle boxing ring,” said John. “And that was mostly Sherlock anyway. I was just there at the end, for the final rooftop showdown – he was the one that worked it all out.” He neglected to mention that he'd fallen off the roof – there were definitely some things that Harry was better off not knowing.

She raised her eyebrows. “Jesus, rooftop showdowns? Are you sure you're not just getting overly invested in reruns of Batman?”

John laughed. “It sometimes seems like it,” he admitted. “At least our criminals don't speak in a series of bad puns.”

“And you're not expected to do it all in spandex,” added Harry.

John made a face at the thought. “God, no way,” he said. “That would be the deal-breaker, I think.”

“Even if it turned out that was the way to turn Sherlock on?” asked Harry. “Maybe he's got a secret spandex fetish – can't stand the idea of sex without it, but is too embarrassed to tell you, and that's why he won't shag you.”

John glared at her. “Would you just leave it already?” he asked. “It's not really that much of a mystery – he's asexual. Get over it.”

Harry held up her hands defensively. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Jesus, when did you stop being able to take a joke?”

John knew that a lot of people thought that Harry's tendency to make overly cruel jokes and then be surprised when people took offence was a symptom of her drinking, but the truth was she'd been doing it since they were kids. The drinking just gave her an excuse not to learn to rein it in. John let out a long breath, trying to let it all just slide off him. It seemed a lot easier today, with the memory of Sherlock's interested gaze on John's face as he came still fresh in his memory.

“I suppose I'm still waiting for your jokes to actually be funny,” he said. “But given some of the jokes Dad used to come out with, it seems I might be waiting a long time.”

Harry snorted. “Christ, yes,” she said. “Remember the one about the nuns that he told at that dinner party Mum had for the new neighbours, the ones who turned out to be born-again Christians? The Jeffersons, Jetsons, something.”

John groaned at the memory. “They used to cross the street to avoid us after that.”

“Can you blame them?” asked Harry. “I'm surprised they didn't just move away.”

“I think they were hoping to be around when God struck Dad down for blasphemy,” said John, and then winced to himself. A heart attack wasn't exactly a lightning bolt from the heavens, but it was close enough to make the comment count as crossing the line a bit. Being around Sherlock had distorted his view on what it was okay to say, and what wasn't.

“Yeah,” said Harry, sobering. There was a pause for a moment, then she took a deep breath. “Look, I get the message that you don't really want to talk about it,” she said. “But you have to admit it's not a normal situation you've got going on with Sherlock.”

John felt the scowl begin to form before she'd even got halfway through the sentence, and had to take a calming breath. Perhaps he was getting a bit sensitive about this, although who could blame him after everything Harry had said about it? Well, perhaps he should attempt an explanation before jumping straight down her throat.

“I know,” he said. “But it's working for us. Just think of it as if we've skipped straight ahead to having been married for thirty years, and our sex life has died but our affection hasn't.”

Harry raised her eyebrows. “It's that serious?” she said.

John didn't need to think about it. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said and couldn't stop himself from smiling at the thought of it.

Harry let out a snort. “Well, I definitely know that look,” she said. “That's your besotted look.” She half-shook her head. “Well, I can't pretend I understand it, but it seems to be working for you. I just hope he feels the same.”

“Oh, he does,” said John with certainty. He might not be a consulting detective, but he could remember the look on Sherlock's face when he looked over the edge of the roof, expecting to see John's shattered corpse far below him, and the way he'd lit up with wonder and exalted glee when he'd realised that John had tricked him at the pub and that he'd been the thief all along, and, most importantly, the way he'd pressed his face in close to John's neck as they'd lain on the sofa together, just breathing in and occasionally darting his tongue out to taste the skin. Any imbecile who was given that data – even Anderson – would be able to deduce that Sherlock Holmes was head-over-heels for John Watson, and that no lack of sexual desire was going to change that.

John gave Harry a rather smug look just as his phone beeped to signal a text arriving.

 _Need you. Man with a missing thumb and what should be a fascinating case, but won't talk until the bleeding has been stopped. SH_

He texted back immediately - _For God's sake, get him to a hospital._ \- then stood up, taking one last gulp of coffee and shrugging into his coat all at once. “Got to go,” he said. “Sorry.”

 _Am in the Royal London,_ came the reply while Harry was still huffing with annoyance. _Doctors here are taking forever. Come immediately. SH_

“It's a case,” John explained to Harry distractedly, trying to text and talk at the same time and making a bit of a hash of it. _You know I'm not allowed to treat people just because you're impatient. On my way._

“Of course it is,” she said, and waved a tired gesture at the door. “Go on then, go and solve crime. Just be careful.”

“Always,” said John, which was a horrendous lie but one he felt no guilt at telling, and rushed off in search of a taxi.

 _Ridiculous rule. Hate waiting. SH_ arrived just as John settled back into the cab, and he winced. A bored, impatient Sherlock wandering a hospital could only end badly.

 _Nearly there. Occupy yourself finding me a non-psychologically damaging cup of tea for when I arrive._

 _An obvious ploy. SH,_ replied Sherlock a moment later. John smiled to himself, confident that when he arrived at the hospital, there would be the perfect cup of tea waiting for him.


End file.
